Losing Innocence
by Taes
Summary: Finding himself in an inconceivable past where nothing is what it should be, Trunks begins to learn what it means to be neither child nor adult in a world where he is no longer the only one to depend on. No romance. COMPLETED.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Dragonball Z, its characters, and overall ideas, belong to the creator. I obviously am not Akira Toriyama, and must admit that none of the above stated are mine. This story is based more or less on "The History of Trunks" and Felix's story, "Pandora's Box." I asked her permission to post this, and received an affirmative, but I doubt that one Akira Toriyama would reply to such a question.

From inspiration comes many things, stories being only one of them.

"…pride is a beautiful, terrible thing, a seed that bears two vines, life and death." James Hurst, _The Scarlet Ibis._

Losing Innocence

Book I

**Chapter 1**

Their bodies fell like dolls. So carelessly cast aside, they fell limply, and at odd angles. Here and there a head would jut out strangely where necks had been broken . . . it seemed there was no end to the pain . . . the bloodshed. 

And the laughter.

Still those damnable twins lived yet, filling the ruin that had become his world with suffering and their own cruel mirth. Strange, that these two beings could cause so much pain, when they seemed so slight. The androids were as tall and graceful as could be, slender as saplings, and pale as the moon. Destruction was never more beautiful, he'd thought, and never was it so deadly.

Heartsick and sore, Trunks pulled himself from the rubble, pushing bodies aside and wearily coming to his feet. Their flesh was warm to the touch, like meat left in the sun too long, but with a hard, rubbery feel to it that made his stomach turn. These people were nothing to the androids . . . nothing but targets that moved at a pathetically slow pace and screamed horribly when they died. These men and women hadn't been killed justly. They hadn't died good, clean deaths . . . they'd died with the impossible hope that maybe, just maybe, he'd save them all. 

When Trunks had arrived, so many of them were already gone . . . past hope of saving. And Seventeen, the cocky android with arrogance just short of foolhardiness, held a man by the neck while he toyed and teased him with some vague amusement. He was near dead, and the android looked bored. So Trunks attacked, thinking that perhaps while he was otherwise occupied, Seventeen would be easier to defeat. He'd grabbed the man, and fled to the relative safety of the streets below. 

The man was dead before he landed, and two androids were not very happy with him.

After that, his mind stopped recording. He vaguely recalled the civilians' shouts of triumph at his arrival…and later, fighting _them. It wasn't exactly what he'd call a long fight. While Eighteen held his attention, Seventeen attacked his flanks, and threw him into the skyscraper. _

The impact was enough to daze Trunks, and cripple the support of the tower. The building design, built for surviving earthquakes and other natural disasters, hadn't planned on a teenage demi-Saiyajin being thrown at a speed exceeding one hundred miles per hour at the base of the said tower. The metal had creaked and groaned before giving way, teetering dangerously for some time. Naturally, the people wanted out of there. 

The actual cascade started slowly, but it picked up speed as it went on, carrying metal, glass and various other pieces in one huge landslide. The noise was terrible. People were screaming, shrieking, and crying out in despair and pain as the heavy pieces pinned them to the ground. They ran all around him, flying down stairs in huge, chaotic herds. But he couldn't help them. Not when the interior machines exploded in starbursts, leaving hair skin, and plastic burnt, and not when they were trapped in a coffin that had been, only minutes before, their offices. All at an alarming rate. 

He couldn't lift an arm, could barely open his eyes, when the people begged him to get them to safety.

And there were still people who didn't understand, who thought he'd let them win. Perhaps it was those poor fools that hurt him the worst. The ones who survived the initial fall waited for him to deliver the final blow that would rid this world of the evil beings known as Androids. And there were some who hadn't understood at all, and died anyways. They hadn't gotten the point when he crashed into the building, and they wouldn't ever. When the tower collapsed, thousands of people died during that first strike, and hundreds more would die as the surrounding buildings fell like toys. 

Hours passed before Trunks had the energy to move. The area was little more than one huge pile of ruble, with only a few pieces left standing. Those pieces he knew would fall soon enough. All around him, the weak and the dying cried out for deliverance, but there was none, as the departments were overrun, and long past their prime. Very few would survive this day.

Using his ability to sense chi, Trunks searched the area for survivors, and slowly began to pull cement, glass and other pieces of debris from their bodies. One by one, he pulled them from the brink of death. But he wasn't fast enough to save them all; he was too tired for that. 

Throughout it all, the androids watched in silence. They simply hovered high above them all. Trunks knew their quiet and the inaction they practiced wouldn't last, but for now, this reprieve was something to take advantage of. Lifting a young woman from beneath the shattered remnants of metal, he sighed once. Her life energy was faint. From above, there was nothing.

Slowly flying to a cleared area, he eased her into a vacant spot, hoping the doctors and people who hadn't fled in horror would help her, as he'd done with the others. The girl moaned as he began his way back, intent on saving another life he should have been protecting to begin with, and then she sighed. Her heart's beating filled his ears for a moment, and was still. His shoulders sagged as he tried to hold back his tears of pain and frustration, and he silently apologized to the girl for his weakness. 

From above, quiet laughter reached his ears. 

_Ignore them . . . he cautioned. __You're too weak to fight them now. One blow crippled__ your abilities. Don't fall for the bait . . . _

Glancing up briefly, Trunks caught sight of the twins' faces. They seemed amused and delighted at this peculiar form of defeat, and dark mischief haunted their eyes. Seventeen smiled. 

As one, they attacked. 

To Trunks, the light of a chi blast had always seemed blue. But this awesome power was more than that, at the heart of things. Later, he wouldn't be able to recall the colors he'd never known before, but he would always remember the pain. And the silence. No one screamed. No one ran. But the dead, empty silence echoed like lightening in his mind's eye, and filled the world with dread.

_…I'm sorry…_

*****

 He drifted. Caught somewhere between reality and dreams, he floated amidst the clouds and on the wind itself. Hazily he realized two unknown people were pulling roughly at his arms, and dragging him through the cold night air. The wind bit at his skin, but it wasn't enough to fully rouse him; he was far too gone for that, so the most it did was irritate him, sleepy though he was. 

It was cool outside, but his heart was colder. The loss of so many lives numbed his mind, and was far too much for an unconscious person to realize without going insane. Realization was the last thing on his mind, however, when his mind was working hard not to _think about anything. _

Short was the trip, but it felt much longer…he was flying, but not of his will. _Gohan? He wondered, thinking perhaps it was his mentor. __That fleeting assumption was crushed with the twist of an arm and the cruel pain on his back this awkward position was causing him. Gohan was dead, Trunks __knew that, he understood the androids had killed him, and albeit he was angry beyond words even now, he wasn't disillusioned. Gohan wouldn't be coming back._

Words drifted in and out of his consciousness, which was odd, seeing that nothing else was coming through, aside from the occasional smell, or fragment of a picture he supposed was the ground far, far below. Two voices. One tenor, filled with dark humor and wit, and the other was an alto, devoid of all amusement, and sounding quite bored. 

Finally, the trip was over, and he was flung to the ground like so much garbage. Dimly, he heard someone wail, and for a moment, he thought it could have been his mother. The two who'd been toting him around like some corpse stopped their easy conversation, and said something, short and sweet, as all their words had been while he'd been with them. It was distinctly odd, and stuck out in his mind quite remarkably.

The ground was colder than the air had been, and it stung to lie upon. 

He must have been bleeding, because something wet and warm slid down his cheeks. It reminded him of tears, but it was slower and thicker than the solution was. 

_Why am I bleeding?_

The sound of hurried, frantic footsteps filled his existence, and in a few moments, he was enveloped in someone's heavenly warm embrace. He sagged with relief, and tried to open his eyes, tried to show he was alive, but his body wouldn't respond. He couldn't even see.

"Oh, Trunks! I'm so sorry!"

_Yeah, he answered. His mouth didn't move, and she made no sign that he'd spoken aloud. Maybe he hadn't. __I need to sleep…I'm sorry. I'll try to be better next time…next time…I won't be so weak. _

 "Don't die on me, Trunks…don't die on me!"

*****

When he woke, it was dark outside, without the faintest trace of light to signify the dawn or sunset. Feeling cramped, sore and altogether terrible, Trunks decided it was probably a good idea to get up and stretch. Unfortunately for him, his mother didn't seem to think so. 

"What do you think you're doing, mister?!" she shrieked upon coming into the room. He was halfway between sitting and lying, and the pause made his back groan in complaint. "Lie back down! Now!" he did. "Oh, Trunks! You're alive!" she cried hysterically, and threw her arms around her son. "I'm so glad you're not dead!"

"…yeah…" he replied, and the past events came flooding through his mind with such intensity and pain he had to wince. The effort it took to stay awake made his shoulders hurt. Hell. It made his entire _body hurt. Becoming a Super Saiyajin hadn't helped much, it seemed…loosing Gohan was to no avail. _

Gohan. 

Friend, teacher, defender, companion…he was like a father to the young demi-Saiyajin. He could do no wrong in his young eyes, and when he was taken away, all those years ago, he'd been defeated. In spite of that defeat, he rose up against the enemies that had slain his almost-brother, and struggled valiantly to avenge the deaths of everyone. He was truly his father's son, Bulma had said. Too damn proud to let anyone beat him, and willing to go through hell to get stronger. To win. 

To hurt.

To kill.

No one could stop him, save those two indestructible machines, called Seventeen and Eighteen. Androids. Twins.

"What were you thinking? Were you _trying to get yourself killed?!" Bulma railed, still hugging her son. Without his realizing, she'd sat down, and pulled him into a position where she could rock him back and forth like a child without picking him. It was soothing, and it was frustrating. He __hurt like hell,  and she wanted to yell at him. Perfect. "I wouldn't have expected you to do that, Trunks! You've been fairly reasonable since--" she cut herself off, and burst into tears. _

"Since Gohan died. I know. I wanted to help…they were dying…" he sighed, leaning against his mother.

She took a shaky breath, and looked him directly in the eye. She wanted him to understand, he could see, but it was difficult for many reasons. "You were almost dead, Trunks." She began, quiet at first, and gaining volume as she went on. "Not _hurt, not injured. I thought you were dead." She dropped off for a moment, and her voice became so quiet he could barely hear her. "I thought you were nothing but another corpse to burry when __they brought you here…I thought you'd finally left me…like everyone else has." She sighed, and her sorrowful, distant look disappeared. "You scared the __shit outta me, kid!" _

He winced. 

"Sorry…"

She continued to glare, unfazed by his apology. "And thanks to _you,  Trunks, I haven't slept for three whole days!" _

_Ouch.  Trunks thought. __That stung…blame it on me… _

Imagining she saw the unasked question she'd been waiting for in his eyes, she continued. "I've been working on the time machine, and because of your little stunt, what would have taken another few _years was accomplished in three. Lousy. Days." She grumbled indistinctly, muttering something about coffee, insane sons, and absolute terror. "Unfortunately, it'll take at least a year to charge." Holding up her hands against any protest he might have had, she hurried onward before he could say a word. "I know, I know! I shouldn't take that long. But that's the way it is, and there's nothing else to it."_

"Mom…" he began. "That's nice that you finished your little hobby--"

He could have sworn she grew three sizes bigger, and fangs a demon would envy. 

He cringed. 

_ "Little hobby?" She echoed, annoyance seeping into her voice. "I'll show __you, a hobby, mister!" _

"…but that's really not going to help…"

She sighed. "I know, sweetie, that you couldn't really understand how important one man could be to the world, but you never _met Goku." She shook her head in wonder, not quite believing she'd known such a person herself. Trunks sighed. __Here we go again…he thought wearily. "He's the most amazing person you'll ever meet. He's not just strong; he's good, too, like his son, Gohan. But he has a way with people Gohan never picked up. They were both determined, selfless people. They both were incredibly strong, gifted fighters, and really kind. But Goku brought hope with him wherever he went, and although Gohan can inspire any of us, he didn't completely believe he could defeat them. He had to grow up too fast…like you…" she trailed off. "You'll see." _

"Mmm…" he murmured, and drifted back to sleep. 

"Sleep well, 'kay, Trunks?"

*****

The sun was shining brightly when he opened his eyes again, and though he still felt gritty, and a bit like he'd been thrown into a bee's hive, covered in honey, and rolled through the desert. Needless to say, he'd seen better days. His muscles still ached, and from the painful, springy feeling his right arm was sending him, he'd probably broken it and at least a few ribs. He sighed, and tried to concentrate on the fact that _yes, he was alive, and therefore in good condition, since no one else in that exact situation survived. _

_I should have done something for them…I should have been able to help.  He thought to himself, tracing the patterns of leaves falling in the picture his mother had hung. __Maybe she's right. Maybe I do__ need help.  The latter caught him by surprise; he hadn't really expected himself to believe what his mom had been trying to preach for the past few years._

_But what about you?  _

Him. Trunks. Memories of how he saw himself-- small, weak and useless --flashed through his mind. 

_When Gohan was alive, you were certain that if you__ were there to help him, then the two of you would have defeated the androids. _

Those had been the naïve, innocent thoughts of a kid who really didn't understand war. 

_Maybe you were in the right mind of thinking then, eh? Fighting fire with fire, as the saying goes…two teams against one another. Them. And…_

For one moment, he couldn't stand being himself. It was as if he'd given up on Gohan, and was trying to find a loophole so he wouldn't have to do as he'd promised…because he was too weak…because he didn't _feel like it anymore. He was playing the devil's advocate. _

_And who?  _

Who indeed. Was Goku a man who was Gohan's opposite, counterpart, equal or better? 

_A dead guy that couldn't even survive some lame disease?  _

Gohan's _father…he'd always loved his dad. Trunks couldn't understand that. Wanted to, but couldn't…he couldn't ever love his father. How could he, when he didn't know him? He didn't love, didn't hate. There was no reason._

_Is that who I'm supposed to work with? Just because he happens__ to be one of my mom's childhood friends, and my __teacher's father, he's supposed to be perfect? _

No one said he was perfect, but the way they spoke of him, it seemed he'd have to be, to fit everyone's expectations. What could it be like to have people think so highly of you?

_I can't believe that crap. _

No. He couldn't. 

So why did it keep coming back in his mind?

_I need a bath. And food. Lots of it. ___

Sitting up slowly, this time expecting the sharp pain and irritated muscles he'd experienced last time, Trunks lifted one arm from beneath the covers. Sure enough, his right arm was broken, and suitably set and put into a cast. Hmm. _Mom's never done that__ before…and for good reason, too; usually Saiyajin bones healed relatively quickly, and required only soft bandage and a few days to a few weeks' rest. _

Something about the pain, and the way more than one rod was sticking out of the hard, plaster-like material told him he probably had shattered the damn thing. 

Well. That was certainly interesting. 

Standing was a far cry from sitting up, and the effort it took almost wasn't worth it. Almost. He clung to the bed like an uncertain three year old, and took a few moments' time to catch his breath before attempting the short walk from here to the shower. He went slowly, and stopped often, being sure to keep a steady pace, and that his feet were _on the ground before he put weight on them. It was difficult to tell; his body was numb from fighting. _

Not one to let her son stay _dirty for long, Bulma had gotten the majority of the dirt off him, and cleaned up the blood. His clothes were a pair of old, soft and deliciously __clean nightclothes, even though they were probably filthy by now. He wasn't __caked in dirt, exactly, but he felt like it. And only a real bath could solve that kind of problem…_

It must have taken him half an hour to get across the room, and his legs were like jelly. If he was too weak to walk, how could he expect to defeat the androids?_ I'll get better eventually… he answered himself, uncertain and a bit afraid of the 'when' that implied. What if while he walked around here at a snail's pace, the androids went out for half the surviving population? Who would stop them?_

Who would care?

Nervous, and not willing to spend the rest of the day in an argument he _couldn't win, Trunks pushed the button to open the door, and stumbled into the bath tub. No showers today…he didn't think his legs would hold long enough to fully cleanse himself…let alone get back to bed after that._

_So you don't wanna think about the lives you're compromising simply 'cause you're tired, __and want a break?  The voice was cold and scathing, and difficult to listen to. Leave it to your conscience to annoy you…_

Bathing took a lot longer than it should have, but he felt better afterwards. While he was napping in the tub, his mother must have brought a few towels in, for when he pulled back the curtain and made ready to leave, he noticed a change of clothes-- more pajamas --soft, warm towels, and a comb. His old sleep clothes were nowhere to be found. He smiled, and dried himself off, listening to the sound of water draining. Lips twitching in remembered filth, he recalled the dirty, brown color the water had been the first two times he washed his hair, and the light gray after that. It'd taken a _long time to lean himself up, and his hair was tangled because of the slow, gentle pulling of the water. _

Changed, and comb in hand, Trunks stumbled across the bathroom floor, and opened the door. He wasn't surprised to find his mother waiting in a chair, and ready to help him back to bed. Impartial to his embarrassment at being so weak, and toughened against his pride as ever, she let him lean on her, despite the awkwardness, and half led, half pulled him back in bed in a few short minutes. 

Needless to say, his head was spinning. 

She took the brush from him, as she'd done so many times when he was younger, and started to ease the tangles from lavender hair, both slender, long fingered hands working diligently to avoid split ends. He'd forgotten how gentle she could be, and how soothing having one's hair brushed could feel. It was a nice gesture, and worthy of his respect. He leaned against her, content to let her do the work as he half dozed, listening to the beating of her heart.

Mothers were nice people to have around.

"You feeling any better, sweetie?" she murmured, intent on untangling a particularly vicious knot, and not really paying attention to his sleepy replies.

Her low tones were hard to concentrate on at the moment, and Trunks was having a very hard time keeping his eyes open. "Mm…" 

"Well, I got some work done on the time machine…got the stall period down a month already. So we're down to eleven months instead of twelve, Trunks! Isn't that great?" she preened, the very picture of an ecstatic mother. 

"Yeah…that's great…" he mumbled, trying to remember what a _time machine was, and what it was supposed to do. Wasn't it a new toaster? Why would a toaster take eleven months?_

Lightly punching his relatively uninjured arm, Bulma frowned at him, indignant. "Well, I expect a little more appreciation than that, mister! Don't you realize how hard I'm working?" On second thought, maybe he was wrong about the 'concentrating on hair' part. 

He yawned. "Thank you _very much for the new toaster, mom…" he murmured. _

Startled laughter met his ears, a full, ringing noise he hadn't heard for many months. It shocked him into wakefulness, and brought a smile to his face. It was nice to hear his mother laugh again; he'd been sure she never would. Another reason to fight for.

_And never give up…_

"Toaster?" she choked, amusement filling the word. "You must be really out of it, kiddo, 'cause a time machine 'ain't got nothin' to do with bread and everything to do with the future." He didn't care how stupid he sounded. He wanted his mom to keep laughing, and stay happy. Never mind his dignity. 

"…oh…" 

"So have you made up your mind yet? I know it's a little soon, and we've got a lot of time to go, but I've worked so long on this and I don't want it to go to waste; I just wanted to help you because you're always working so hard and I thought maybe I could do something to let you grow up in a nice, safe place the way I wanted you to..." she trailed off. Trunks blinked. That was a _long sentence. __And spoken at that __rate, I'm not surprised I understood half that…_

"Uh."

"I thought so." She murmured, happy and relived to have gotten that splinter out of the way. "So what do you want for breakfast?" his hair was most of the way brushed by now, with only the worst tangles left to work out. "I was thinking maybe a little of everything…" she trailed off, doubtless thinking of the many kinds of food she liked to prepare for breakfast. "Kami knows Saiyajin eat a hell of a _lot when they're recuperating." She laughed shortly, thinking of the many, many other times he or Gohan had eaten her out of house and home while waiting to get out of the house. "You up for breakfast, or do you want to catch some z's first?"_

Trunks blinked, weighing his options carefully. "Hair, food, sleep." He decided.

She laughed. "I can see _you've got your priorities straitened out!" She chuckled, and leaned over to look him in the eyes, delicately raising one eyebrow. "Although I must admit, I am a bit worried…a Saiyajin, putting off food? What has the world come to?"_

"It's come to think that one must be clean to enjoy food." He replied calmly, hoping he'd heard right.

Well, _that certainly amused her. He smiled. _

After a few more minutes of the hair-brushing crusade, Bulma proclaimed his hair in proper condition, and helped him off the bed and to the table in the center of the room. By the looks of things, she'd planned on his acceptance of food, and come prepared; the table was long enough to seat twenty, and not too wide for her to comfortably reach things. To Trunks, tired, sleepy and not certain he was starving half to death, it looked like heaven. 

She disappeared out the door, and a few minutes later, came back, pushing one cart full of food, and pulling another. Trunks' stomach grumbled. He didn't bother asking where she'd gotten the carts, or when she'd prepared the food, and simply worried about when he could eat it. She gave him a look. He sighed unhappily, and waited the ten minutes it took to set the table, and pull a few more carts into the room. At last, he was permitted to eat to his heart's content, and according to Bulma, his mouth expanded to fit roughly the size of an elephant in each bite. 

So much for nice, wonderful mothers who didn't torture their sons with embarrassing similes… 

For the most part, he ignored her playful jabs, and just _ate,__  not dropping, spilling or wasting a drop. As a result, he, unlike Gohan upon occasion, wasn't ordered to wash up __after dinner as well as he had before, and simply needed to brush his teeth. This he did without complaint. _

For the next few weeks, life continued like this, with his mother working on altering the infamous "toaster" between his naps. This was his slow, steady road to recovery, and for a time, he knew some peace. He couldn't shake the feeling that this was the calm before the storm, however, and kept a diligent eye out for trouble even as he learned to walk anew, and trained at the lowest possible frequency to keep his body fit. 

A little more than a month later, the time machine had been modified to need only eight months worth of charging, and that was about as fine-tuned as his mother could make it without stripping her lab of materials. Only then would she permit Trunks to leave the house and patrol the lands, though he'd been doing so for a long time coming as it was. She knew about this, and never said a word, taking care to mention Goku every day, until finally, he gave in. His heart was committed to the task, as she doubtless would have wanted.

And, as she hoped, as Gohan would have liked. 

This time around, things would be different.

This time, things would turn out for the better, and the world wouldn't have to suffer a terrible blow from the beings known as androids. 

Was this what he wanted?

Was this what he fought for?

For peace. 

For hope.

For family.

*****

To be continued. The next chapter should be out by Friday the 18th. 

Comments, criticism and rants would be greatly appreciated.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Dragonball Z, its characters, and overall ideas, belong to the creator. This story is based more or less on "The History of Trunks" and Felix's story, "Pandora's Box." She is a wonderfully nice person and allowed me to post this.

_Losing Innocence_

            by Taes Willett

** Chapter 2**

It was finally _time. _

Eight months and a few skirmishes with the androids later, it was finally time to go. 

_Okay, okay… he thought, trying to calm himself down. He was getting more than a little nervous, and the sheer __magnitude of his mission left feeling high strung and entirely too incompetent. __Oh, shit.__ He panicked. What __are their names again? Completely ignoring the fact that he'd grown up hearing stories about his mom, her friends and the so-called Z-Warriors, it was safe to assume his nerves were frying his brain. __What if I forget? _

_What if they don't trust me? His heart stopped. __What if Dad__ doesn't trust me? Nervously biting his lip to keep from screaming, he tried to remember everything his mother had told him. _

Rule number one. Do _not break the vial, and give the medicine to Goku, at all costs, and explain what it's for, and what will happen if he doesn't take it._

Rule number two. Do _not, under any circumstances reveal his name. Never apologize, and never explain. _

Rule number three. Stay only for as long as necessary, and not a moment longer. Don't dawdle!

Rule number four. Be polite.

Going through the guidelines his mother had instructed him on calmed him down a bit, or at least enough to think a little better. He checked his pocket for what must have been the seventieth time, trying to make sure he hadn't left the precious vial somewhere or broken it. Fortunately for him, it was unharmed. Bulma had told him he really wouldn't need to bring much by way of weapons, specifically, his sword, but he felt entirely too empty without it. Her reasoning was somewhere along the lines of Freeza, and him being weaker than the androids, and really not worth much effort. 

Nevertheless, it was coming with him, whether or not he needed it. Of course, he believed his mother about Goku, but there were a few things the lavender haired half-Saiyajin needed to see for himself. Namely, he couldn't be too sure of the man's strength, technique or willingness to fight for others. That was a long time ago, and what could seem like passion now, may have been arrogance at the time. Memory had a nasty habit of glossing over the bad parts of the past, especially when concerning those gone. 

Never speak ill of the dead.

"Trunks, you'd better get a move on, kid!" his mother yelled from the hanger. "I don't _care if you think you have all the time in the world, because we don't know how long this so-called peace will last. The androids could be here any minute!" she seemed to think that because he was launching a plan that might just work, the androids would be on her tail in a moment, especially if she dawdled. For the past few days, she'd been a nervous wreck, checking this connection and that, trying to decide if this piece of junk would actually get __moving._

Trunks was annoyed. The time machine was technically _ready to leave at eleven thirty five last night, and __she was the one who insisted he get a good night's sleep before attempting to pilot it. What harm could waiting a few more minutes cause? It's not like the machine would blow up if he didn't leave now…_

Right?

Dear Kami, he hoped so… "Are you sure _you don't want to go back? I mean, you seem to have all these precise ideas and stuff that nobody but you could conceivably get right." He couldn't keep the annoyance from his voice, though the question was-- more or less--a good one. _

That stopped her. He heard her tread quietly up the stairs, and into his room, though he didn't watch her ascent. "Trunks, honey, I'm sorry I'm being a pain. But it's gotta be this way! 

"I couldn't go back…Bulma from the future?" she gave a short laugh, amused and full of wit and good humor. "Come on! That'd just be _too strange to handle…one of me is quite good enough for the universe, thank-you-very-much. _

"But you?" her voice got softer, and smiled at her son, love and kindness, with a touch of depression beneath her large eyes. "You're so _young, so passionate, and full of spirit and courage…" __like Gohan. Neither of them said it, but both knew it to be true. "They'll believe you; I know they will. _

"This is something only you can do and get it done right, Trunks." She paused, a look of wistfulness, regret and some embarrassment crossing her features. "Besides. I might want to stay…and I couldn't do that. It wouldn't be fair to the world here."

He smiled, and crossed the room. "I'm glad you believe in me." 

She laughed, and absently pushed a stray piece of his hair back into place, studying his appearance with a practiced eye, not even realizing she was doing so. How many years had she been doing that? He didn't know, and quite frankly, he didn't _care. "How could I not?" she grinned. "You're one hell of a hero, Trunks, and don't you dare forget that." _

He looked at her for a moment, and nodded, determination sealing his expression. This would work…it had to. 

It had to work… would do it for his mother, for the dead, and for the sake of the world. What better reasons could there be? "I'd better go." He remarked, shuffling awkwardly. She nodded, and stood out of his way, hesitating. Then, seemingly out of sheer disregard of any and all feelings of seriousness, she stepped up and gave him a hug, nodding good-bye. 

They walked downstairs without saying a word, and continued their farewells. Finally, he boarded the machine, only hesitating the last step of the way, where he turned, waved, and turned again, this time to the thing that would restore the past. 

To ensure a better future, where children could be at peace. Where barely thirteen-year-old kids wouldn't loose their only friends to a pair of deadly killing machines. 

Where there would be…

 Hope.

*****

Truth be told, everything went blank after he closed the door, and initiated the machine. He couldn't remember the trip at all, just the before…and the after. There was no jolt as he came to a stop, and there were no whirling, banging or other noises he associated with the word 'machine.' It just _was. No dramatics, no gradual pick up before going._

It was, and then it wasn't. 

First he was there, now he was here…it was a bit confusing, honestly, and he wasn't quite sure if he'd fallen asleep or not. 

The scenery was similar to what he'd seen in his timeline, but somehow it was cleaner. It seemed simpler, fresher. It _smelled like peace. The machine was gone, oddly enough, but there. Bulma hadn't mentioned anything about this part, she probably had assumed he'd do the same as he had to get it started, only with a different set of coordinates. They were both working on the assumption that time was more akin to a line on an x-y axis, a function, and not a circle…where the same point x could be reached in two different ways, from two opposite directions. _

If the latter was more correct than the former, then they might very well end up having the exact same thing happen, only with different players. 

_Shit. How the hell am I supposed to get back if I can't even see __the damn thing?! For an instant, panic engulfed him, sending his mind in a suicidal whirl that could very well have damaged his brain permanently. But he got a hold on himself, and cautiously felt around him. He was no longer inside anything; he was standing on a green hill, overlooking a small congregation of people…his mother among them. _

His heart skipped a beat. Mom hadn't mentioned _she'd be there!_

Pulling his thoughts away from that particular distraction, Trunks concentrated on finding the machine, and much to his surprise, he did. Or rather, it found him. 

This machine, this masterpiece of his mother's, was not quite the same as it had been when he'd first seen it. The yellow exterior with the windows and single door were no longer there…it existed completely within the boundaries of his mind. Trunks felt the blood drain from his face. _Oh, shit__. Mom's gonna kill me…_

True, initiating the machine would take little more than a concentrated effort, but it seemed a hell of a lot easier when he only had to punch a series of buttons. Now he had the pleasure of mentally calculating several formulas that would take a few mathematicians days to solve. And he had to do it in less than a minute, of all things, in order to get the timing exactly right. Not only that, but he needed a point that he could clearly focus on. 

Well, because of those little safeguards, at least he wouldn't be wishing himself home on accident. And he wouldn't have to worry about hiding the time machine, either.

_And here I was thinking that would be the easy__ part. He thought, annoyed. _

He must have made some sort of noise, for when he looked up, he was staring into the serious, almost deadly expression of a Namek that easily dwarfed him. He started, moving backwards a few steps before he regained control of his fried nerves. _Piccolo…? He wondered. "Uh…" seemed to be the only word he could get out. Staring didn't seem to be like a good idea, from what his mother told him about the green skinned man, but he'd never seen anyone like him… how could someone so intimidating, so steadfast and solid, practically raise someone like Gohan? _

"What are you staring at, kid?" Piccolo asked, menace flavoring his deep voice. "And what are you doing here?"

Trunks winced. Someone needed to explain to him how this guy was defeated by the androids, when he made _them seem like a pair of teenage punks. "I…" _

_"Well? I haven't got all day!" _

Kami. What a temper…! He needed to sound as calm and cool as he could, getting the idea that arrogance wouldn't go very far with this proud warrior. The man had a code of honor Trunks doubted he'd ever understand, and saying the wrong thing could make them enemies for good. _Not something he wanted. Glancing at the sky to judge the time, he stopped. Stared. For the second time in less than five minutes, he paled, and looked directly at the green skinned man. "Where's…what happened to…?!" _

Freeza.

His mom had been sure to tell him about _that particular little nuisance. If he were anywhere near the planet by now he'd be able to sense him, as he sensed Goku. Mind whirling, Trunks stared blankly, not seeing anything. __He's…that was…this couldn't…he couldn't think straight, couldn't form a coherent thought._

Pushing past the Namekian with ease that surprised him, he half flew, half ran down to the edge of the overhang, and looked down. His mother had gone over the names, faces, and personalities of the group many, many times before sending him on this mission, so he knew exactly who he was looking for. Goku was _there, all right, and Freeza wasn't._

The only person he didn't recognize was a blue skinned man with long, sea green hair and violet eyes that seemed entirely too…cruel…for his liking. How could…Goku wasn't supposed to arrive for another two hours. _What is going on __here?_

Confused, and fearing for the worst, Trunks jumped off the cliff, spinning expertly to gain the balance he'd lost with such a foolhardy act, and landing in a fighter's crouch. He stood, directly in front of the man he'd come back to save, eyes clear and mind set. 

"I need to talk to you, Goku," he murmured, giving a polite bow to the older man. "It's important." His low, quiet voice carried weight in the suddenly not-so pleasant afternoon, and the tall, pale man, father of his teacher, his friend, nodded. 

For an instant, nobody moved, and Trunks, not wanting to discuss anything in front of the large group, hesitated. His mother had told him to _tell as few people as possible, hadn't she? Well, it was probably for a good reason. Looking a little awkward, and more like the teen he was, he cleared his throat, and looked from Goku to the surrounding crowd. _

His mother's face was particularly vivid in his mind as he turned back to Goku. "I'd rather speak with you alone, if you don't mind." Perplexed, but trusting, he nodded, and waited a moment. Trunks, not wanting to alarm anyone, murmured a polite, "Excuse me," and made his way through the throng, hoping he didn't seem as odd to them as he felt.

Goku followed with an easy patience, not worried, and not afraid, despite the fact that he'd appeared out of no where, and practically demanded he surrender his safety in order to _talk to a stranger he didn't know. Trunks got the feeling the man was either entirely capable of taking care of himself, or just too naïve to understand how fishy the situation was. _

Somehow, it seemed more likely to be the former, and not the latter. The Saiyajin was calm, peaceful, and at ease, completely in control. It forced Trunks to take a step back, reevaluate what he knew, and take a few calming breathes before starting the conversation. They were a few hundred yards off when he started to fly upwards and out of sight. He stopped when he could no longer see the group, and the silence and easy peace of the cool air filled his mind and lungs. 

Goku waited for Trunks to start, smiling slightly, despite everything. Trunks had to marvel at the sheer purity he exhibited, and wondered if _this was what his mother meant. "My name is Trunks. I'm here to help you…I'm from the future." Goku nodded. Surprised at his easy acceptance, Trunks was suddenly at a loss of what to say. "In my future, Goku, you die of a heart disease that has no cure at the time." He paused, and Goku nodded, unfazed. "It's caused by the technique you learned after Freeza--"_

"Instant transmission?" he asked, surprised. "But I don't feel bad at _all after I do that!"_

Trunks looked away, staring at a passing bird, unwilling to meet the older man's eyes. "Not yet, but later, you might…three years later, at ten in the morning, thirty miles east of West City, the androids appear. They kill everyone you know, and two thirds of the population. The entire world is left in shambles, just waiting for the androids to kill them, too." He stopped, and sighed, finally looking up.

Goku looked sad, as he expected, but not so much mournful as angry. Passion filled his voice as he spoke, and a sincere desire to _help shone in the Saiyajin's eyes. "What can I do? How can I keep everyone safe?" _

Not how can _you help __me. Not how long do I have to live. Trunks was amazed. If he'd been told what Goku had just learned, would he be so willing to help others? Could he put aside his life for them? He honestly didn't know. _

Smiling tightly, Trunks looked him in the eyes. "You can fight me." 

He must not have been too surprised by this admonition, for when he _did attack, he was more prepared than Trunks had been willing to give him credit for. Throwing a few punches that really weren't worth much, he was surprised to see that instead of letting them get through his defenses, Goku blocked every one of them, and without leaving himself open to attack. The man was good. _

Pulling back a few feet, Trunks surveyed the position of himself and his opponent, and judged the distance between them. Pushing himself up a notch and into Super Saiyajin form, he gathered as much energy as he could in a fraction of a second, and sent it whirling towards Goku.

Goku, on his part, didn't seem too surprised, and smiled a bit at the tactic. Trunks winced, wondering what the hell he'd been thinking, for pulling such an obvious move…then mentally chastised himself. He wasn't going for his abilities here, he was going for strength. It'd take more than a good tactician to defeat the androids, and he wasn't going to assume he could do everything just because he could out smart him. 

Batting the energy ball aside with an easy motion, Goku didn't wait for Trunks to attack again, suddenly appearing a few feet behind him before he could even think to wonder what was going on. A light cuff across the neck told him where he'd gone, but the depth of the strength he'd used wasn't nearly enough to faze him. 

"No games, Goku," he murmured, and sped toward him at a speed he hadn't realized he could reach. He tried to make himself believe it was _his fault Gohan had died, because if he'd been alive, this man who seemed so sure that everything would turn out for the best, then Gohan wouldn't have needed to fight. He wanted to believe that with his help, the androids would have been gone long ago, and the path of destruction they paved with them._

This resulted in a blow that was enough to daze the Saiyajin, and gave Trunks enough room to set up another attack, but not without compromising some time. In the few seconds it took for him to continue his assault, Goku transformed from a half-smiling father amused at this young man's behavior to a half-serious man wanting to give a few pointers to the young and foolhardy. 

Pausing in mid air, Goku casually leaned out of the way of Trunks' kick, looking curiously at the boy. "Try moving your arm a little more like this," he advised, crooking his arm at a peculiar angle and coming from the left to hit a spot of empty air. "You'll get the same effect, and with less energy." 

What kind of man advised his opponents after being attacked like that? 

Annoyed, and embarrassed, Trunks renewed his determination, pulling his sword from its sheathe. This Goku didn't expect, but instead of vanishing out of the way, he stopped the blade with an open palm, jarring Trunks to the point of misconception. He'd thought the man had seriously made an attack, and planned on killing him the first instant he got. 

Furious, and more than a little frustrated, Trunks retracted his blade and lunged, giving way to the anger that built inside him. 

"Calm down a little, you're getting sloppy!" Goku yelped, barely dodging his sword. It continued like this for less than a minute, but Goku didn't seem to want to finish it like this, and disappeared out of Trunks' reach for a moment. Whirling around, certain he was behind him again, he readied for another attack.

No one was there.

Then, "Ka…" somewhere above him, he heard Goku's voice falling down like rain, determined, but gentle. "Me…" he sent wave after wave of chi energy towards _that point, but Goku was long gone before then, and the voice seemed to come from to his left and below, now. "Ha…me…" leaning out of the way and blasting the life out of a nearby tree, Trunks panicked. Gohan used this attack, but not very often…it required concentration, time, and a significant amount of energy to be effective, but the results it yielded were far more potent than any other attack he could construct. Already, he could feel the immense energy being pulled from the one man that he had to trust, whether he liked it or not, and the result wasn't exactly telling him what he wanted to know. "HA!" _

Desperately trying to block an attack he knew he'd be no match for, Trunks set his hands and waited, building defenses that wouldn't stand up against much of anything, let alone this tsunami. As he began to feel the peculiar energy that came with all chi blasts, and began to see the heart of the concentrated attack, it turned _up and __out, well away from him and everyone else. _

It exploded into a shimmering rain cloud of crystal shards, each a perfect imitation of spring rain, and each perfectly harmless. Beautiful.

Well, he'd certainly made his point. Goku certainly didn't _have to miss. Trunks smiled, and searched for the man. Now that their little battle was over, he wasn't hard to find. "Goku!" he called, and held up the tiny vial for him to see. He looked for a moment at the vial, then at Trunks, a little confused. Gently throwing the little thing towards the taller Saiyajin, he let his smile widen, and nodded politely. "When you start to feel sick, take that. You'll be better in a few days…make sure you don't lose it, though. Mom would kill me if you did…"_

Goku laughed. His mom had a thing for coming up with personality checks just by listening to someone laugh…you could tell what kind of person they were. By listening to Goku, Trunks got the distinct impression that he was probably the most pure, innocent person he'd ever have the chance of meeting, and the most loving, dedicated man the world could want. Father. Friend. Defender. "You're Bulma's son, aren't you?" he asked finally, amused. "You look like her…you've even got her dad's hair." He said with a grin. "And…Vegeta's?" he guessed.

Trunks did a double take. No one mentioned anything about Goku being observant; they'd only talked about him being a little goofy, forgetful, and naïve. Aside from his dedicated, scary side. So how could he have guessed he was Vegeta and Bulma's son when he didn't _know anything about that? That was just odd. "Uh. Yeah." _

Goku laughed again, this time out of happiness, and grinned wider. "That's great! I was getting worried about Vegeta…he hasn't been the same since Namek…I hope things turn out okay for them."

Studying Goku with new respect, Trunks lifted an eyebrow. "Why? What's wrong with…Dad?" it felt odd, to call someone he didn't even know his father. 

Goku frowned. "I dunno…he drinks a lot, and doesn't talk to anybody, really. It's like he's not really here." He shrugged, and scratched his head, obviously puzzled by the only other full-blooded Saiyajin alive. "And he doesn't get along with Zarbon, either…"

"Who's that?" Trunks asked, speaking so quickly he almost lost track of what he _said. "Is he that blue guy? Mom never mentioned him…wait a second. Are they involved?" he blushed. Did he really want to know the answer to that?_

Goku nodded. 

"Uh. Could you not tell them about who I am…? I mean, it could mess things up…or influencing the future any more than I have to. I'll be back in three years, okay?" he didn't wait for Goku's answer. "They're really strong, Goku. Stronger than anyone you've met so far. They killed everyone…even Gohan." With that, he smiled sadly, and concentrated on his mother's lab, plugging in the numbers that would take him home. 

Home. Where nothing but bloodshed awaited him.

He didn't hear Goku say goodbye.

*****

tbc… 

Next chapter should be up by Friday the 25th of October.

Thank you, May and Trunk's Lover for reviewing! Comments make me all happy-glowy (a.k.a. deliriously  happy). Reviews, critiques and rants are always welcome. Thanks for your time.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: Dragon Ball Z is licensed by FUNimation Productions, Ltd. DB and all logos, character names and distinctive likenesses thereof are trademarks of TOEI ANIMATION. I hate to admit it, but that means I don't own any of that. Only the content is mine, and the basic outline. This is based, more or less, on Felix's Pandora's Box. Go read that and give her a nice long review. **

**Warnings: AU, possible OoC, confusion, and possibly extreme violence. **

Losing Innocence

by Taes Willett

**Chapter 3**

When he returned, things seemed almost exactly as he'd left them. It was peaceful, quiet, and so radically different from what he'd grown accustomed to it hurt. If he survived, then the day was considered average. If nobody died, then he was having a good day. If someone died, then it was a bad one. It was as simple, and as terrible, as that.

The group had gathered in a grassy spot, sitting underneath a tree and speaking in low voices. No one looked up when he got there, and no one noticed the look of confusion, even anger, on his face. He'd expected to come back to turmoil, at the most. To his friends fighting an evil he knew too well. At the least, he'd expected to come back to a scene where they'd come across them with little or no actual fighting going on.

What he hadn't expected, however, was a picnic. 

"What are you doing?" he asked quietly, trying not to turn each word into a dagger. Didn't they get it? The androids were evil…not something they could take lightly!

He must have taken them by surprise, for the only ones who didn't seem startled-- not frightened, merely startled --were Goku and Piccolo. Trunks had to wonder if anything surprised Piccolo.

The Namekian smiled grimly. "It's eleven thirty. No sign of the androids, kid." He looked at him sideways, no trace of emotion flavoring his voice. 

A thousand explanations ran through his head, but none of them made sense. How could he explain it? Why would they believe him, when everything he'd supposed was wrong? The silence went on for a few moments, before Trunks cleared his throat. "And you're just sitting here, waiting for them to start killing people?"

The blue guy, Zarbon, he thought his name was, rolled his eyes. "These fellows tell me they can't sense anything, which tends to mean there isn't anything wrong."

Trunks stared. How could they know about the androids? What the hell made them think they were exactly the same as everyone _else they'd gone up against, when they'd all died at their hands? "They don't __use their chi…the two of them rely almost entirely on their bodies, the machinery that makes them so much stronger than us, so it's impossible to tell where they are. _

"When they attack, the only way to recognize their position is by the sudden _lack of life around them. That's it. There isn't another way." He felt cold, and his voice was flat. Emotionless…hollow…like so many of the people on his world, he sounded dead. Anger flared within him, sending his chi straight up, dangerously close to Super Saiyajin. Holding it in check took conscious effort, and he wasn't sure it was completely worthwhile. "What have you been __doing the past three years?"_

Annoyance radiated from those gathered, but Trunks couldn't find it in him to care. "We've been training. What did you _think we were doing?" Piccolo growled, glaring at the boy. "Having a tea party?" _

Krillin, amused, but frankly offended, snickered. He stopped abruptly when Zarbon glared at him, and chuckled nervously, one hand behind his head. When Zarbon turned back to Trunks, the short, bald man muttered something that appeared to be half explanation and half irritated complaint. 

Goku, on the other hand, looked wistful. "Tea? I want tea…getting kinda hungry…" 

Everyone else nearly fell over.

Trunks frowned, and began pacing the length of the area, trying to figure out what went wrong, and what the hell he could do about it. Inaction would drive him insane. For a few moments, he didn't address the others at all; he just paced irritably and tried to think of what Gohan would do. "Why aren't you training _now, then?" he asked at after a length. _

Krillin chuckled in amusement, not the least bit surprised by this question. "We've been training for three years straight, kid. One more hour won't do us any good."

Trunks sighed. "Trunks. My name is Trunks." He said quietly, trying to forget what Gohan had always said. Some days, he'd _only been able to train for an hour at the most, and he hadn't seen the point of it…how much could he improve in an hour? But Gohan insisted that he at least try, because an hour could sometimes change the fate of the world. __You take what you can get, Trunks, he'd said. _

"You take what you can get," he echoed. "And _I haven't been training for three years. I've only been gone for a few months, which has me at a distinct disadvantage…so will somebody train with me or not?" frustration colored his voice, and he was certain they could tell…_

For the most part, they just stared at him. He could tell they were uncomfortable, based on the way their eyes lingered on his right arm, in a sling once again due to another break, the bruises that colored his face, and arms, and the long diagonal cut leading from his left eye to the center of his forehead. 

"Uh…" Krillin murmured something indistinct. No one else said anything.

"Never mind," Trunks admonished. They thought he was a cripple…someone who couldn't take care of himself, let alone anyone else. 

Zarbon was far less casual about his condition than anyone else was, and stared openly at the kid. "So. What happened to you?"

Trunks glanced at him, and met his gaze easily. "I got in a fight with the androids. They decided I was going to be their pin cushion." He sighed again, frustrated. "Have there been any fires lately? Or has anything else happened, like buildings collapsing, or bridges suddenly going out of order? Suspicious or otherwise." He asked. No one said anything, and Krillin, answering for the group, wordlessly shook his head. "What about the people? The news usually finds the androids before anyone else can…Gohan and myself included." His lips twitched. "They have a way of going precisely where they're least wanted and hanging around until they're literally thrown out of there…" 

For a moment, he remembered how many news reporters he'd met, who'd been the only ones who'd survived a catastrophe. The twins were amused by the reporters more than anything else, and tended to keep their sources of amusement alive until they became too bothersome. 

Like him. 

Like Gohan.__

"Why _aren't you watching the news? My mom has the news on twenty-four-seven, and is always aware of the state of the civilians…they can tell you a __lot, you know." At their blank stares, and blatant amusement to his referral to his mother, he grew agitated. "Do you even know what the news __IS?!"  Kami help me…this is impossible…! _

"Er, well, yeah, we do know what the news is," Krillin replied, and laughed nervously. He put one hand behind his head, and tried to look unaffected by Trunks' temper. Trunks glared.

"You could at least have the radio on." He muttered.

After that, there was silence once again. 

Goku shifted uncomfortably, not liking the heavy distrust, pain and confusion that remained so pronounced between the stranger, Trunks, and his friends. "We should split up. See if we can find anything…maybe they're looking around." Surprised, Trunks looked up at Goku, and smiled. Honestly thankful someone was able to take action, he stepped aside with much relief, hoping someone who truly understood this world, where peace wasn't so fleeting, worked. 

He scanned the faces of the others, trying to gauge their reaction to the suggestion, and happily found they seemed to be in agreement with Goku. However, one thing jumped out at him he hadn't noticed before. "Where's Vegeta? Why isn't he here?" he asked, confused, and more than a little surprised. From what his mother told him, his father was never one to miss a battle, even if it meant 'staying around those idiots' for longer than could be considered 'agreeable.' 

Zarbon snorted. "At Capsule Corps, I expect, drunk, and about as aware of the world as the dead." He rolled his eyes. "As usual."

Trunks stared. Goku had mentioned something about his father drinking, but…he hadn't thought he meant--

He stopped. No. He hadn't _thought at all._

 "I'll go see if I can…get him to …help," he murmured, not quite paying attention to the others, or even what he said. Absently, he tried to pick out his mother's chi from the city and find his way home that way. He stopped. She wasn't here…he'd thought he'd at least be able to recognize her, but the woman here was nothing like his mother, and it showed in her chi. She had no love for him, didn't even know him. She wasn't worried, and didn't care at all…

_So I can't find her.  He thought. __So what? I'll find another way home-- to Capsule Corps. The Capsule Corps here wasn't home any more than Bulma was his mother. Sort of. _

How he found his way there, he really couldn't say, but when he got there, it wasn't difficult to find Vegeta at all. He was the only chaotically unbalanced chi within miles, and practically radiated hatred and depression. Needless to say, he was a wreck. He lay on the couch, chugging bottles of some foul smelling liquid at a rate that made even Trunks uncomfortable. By his arm, a plate full of cupcakes rested on the table. The cupcakes were layered in pink icing and topped with cherries, and swiftly found new homes on the ceiling of the Briefs' living room. 

He didn't quite know what to say.

"Well. If it isn't our little mystery kit…the brat from the future who decided he wanted to save the world." Vegeta said by way of greeting. He didn't bother to look up. 

Trunks took a few steps into the room, and positioned himself directly within Vegeta's sight, and between he and the cupcakes. He was half afraid one of them would fall and hit him on the head… "It's been three years."

Vegeta snorted.

Trunks stared at his father, wondering what could have happened to make him _act like this. "Aren't you going to do something?" he paused, hoping Vegeta would justify himself. Give him a desperately needed reason to forgive his father. "Try to help stop the androids?" but there was nothing._

Vegeta took a swallow from the bottle, and threw it into the ceiling when he found it was empty. The shards fell down on the two of them like so much rain. Neither of them blinked. There was a trace of movement behind him, and Trunks half turned to regard it. A brown, furry tail made a grab for another bottle, but, not wanting to see his father destroy himself any more than he already had, Trunks scooted it out of the way. 

The tail twitched in agitation.

Strange, how Gohan and his mother had both told him tales about his father and Goku's experiences with the Ozuru, and the several times Goku's tail had saved him as a child, but he'd never imagined them quite the way they _were. They were long and slender, with a spark of agility that surprised him. It was almost as if they were separate organisms… _

Vegeta growled menacingly, bearing his teeth. "Why the hell should I?" he didn't seem interested in the world's welfare at all, and as if he couldn't fathom why anyone else should give a damn.

He kept staring at his father, not paying one wit's attention to the fact that he'd done nothing but that this entire time. "Because you can. Because you might make a difference."

Vegeta laughed aloud at that, a low, dark chuckle that clawed through Trunks' defenses in a way he'd never wanted to experience. His father couldn't care less if he died or not, and didn't bother hiding that from a total stranger, though this particular stranger happened to be his son. It was more than a little shocking. "I died the first time around, now didn't I?" Trunks didn't reply. "So why waste the effort if I won't do any good?"

"I didn't say that." He said quietly. To hell with denial…never did him any good anyways…so why was he bothering?

Vegeta looked him in the eyes, dark humor glinting still. He aimed his words like weapons, and he always shot to kill. Unlike Gohan. "Your Namek friend did." As an afterthought, he added, "Like you give a damn about me."

Trunks decided to ignore that. "So Goku didn't tell them…?" this was both a relief and an irritation. He specifically remembered asking to talk to Goku _alone._

Vegeta rolled his eyes, and half sat up, as if trying to make certain this idiotic brat understood what he said. "No." he snorted, and flopped back on the couch, staring up at the cupcakes as if he too, waited for them to fall. "You had a spy, brat."

Trunks shifted uncomfortably, not wanting to continue the conversation, but needing to understand. "So what else do you know…?" he asked finally, not sure where to go from there.

"Not a damn thing." Vegeta answered, a few beats behind, and slow enough that Trunks had begun to think he hadn't heard him. "Everyone died, blah-blah-blah-blah-_blah." He gestured vaguely with his hands, making disjointed, random motions as he spoke. All this accented his state of consciousness, which really needed no more emphasis than it had already. _

"Androids. Three years. Kakarott would have died by some disease. That's about the gist of it." He laughed shortly. "The damn idiot made sure _I knew." He snorted. "Like it'd make one hell of a difference."_

Trunks didn't really know what to say. This certainly wasn't what he was expecting when his mother told him he'd be meeting his father. Not at all.

"Well, well, well. We found the right place after all." A dry voice admonished, speaking in low tones that conveyed boredom and some vague amusement that always lingered, but never showed itself outright. Trunks knew that voice better than he knew his own…he'd be able to place it in a thousand years…

Seventeen. So they existed after all. He hadn't been sure they would in this time line…

"Hmf." The low, feminine voice was clearly Eighteen. She seemed as bored as her brother, but more noticeably so. Unlike her twin, she wasn't amused by the deaths of humans; it was just something to do. That, and all human life seemed to annoy her. "It doesn't look the way it should." She remarked, tapping long, delicate fingers on her arm impatiently. 

They were alike, yet different. Both were tall, slender, and delicate, and moved with grace that came easy to them. Their eyes, so different than the entire human population, gleamed like jewels, set in cool, calculating angles that accented the sharp sapphire as nothing else could. Her hair was a platinum blond, and his a black so dark it had blue highlights. Both had their hair styled in the same manner; straight and down to the shoulders, curving upwards ever so gently. 

 He never paid much attention to their clothes. It didn't matter, not really. Their eyes held his attention, and their silent, deadly way of moving that spoke volumes of silence. And in that silence, thousands of stories were entombed; tales of the living brought to rest in their all-seeing eyes, and tales of horror and destruction. No, what they wore never stuck out much in his mind.

Seventeen rolled his eyes, un-phased by her behavior. "So _what? Is everything about appearance to you?" _

"Usually." 

Looking at the two with some vague interest, Vegeta sighed, remembering his drink was long gone, and stood. "I'm getting a drink. You want anything?" he asked, tail flexing.

The twins looked at each other. "No." They replied in unison. Apparently, they'd forgotten anyone at all was in their presence, much less someone who wasn't afraid of them. 

Kami forbid.

"Fine then." Oddly enough, the Saiyajin was as unaffected by their presence as they themselves were. "Take a seat. Make yourself at home." 

Trunks stared. His father was being more courteous to the androids than he had been to him. And _he wasn't trying to kill everyone. Part of him wanted to laugh, and the other part wanted to strangle his father. _

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?!" he exploded. So. When it came to it, the angry side won out. "You can't do this, Vegeta, they're monsters!"

"Excuse the boy." Vegeta murmured, pushing his way through the two. They stepped aside to admit him, something he'd never seen them to do as long as he'd lived. "He's facing a serious family trauma at a young age; he's bound to be hysterical."

"WHAT?!" for a moment, he sounded almost exactly as his father had, when he was mad as hell and ready to kill every being in the universe. Only he could never have known. "They annihilated two thirds of the human population, destroyed the planet, and fucked over everyone's lives! Those that survive aren't even truly _alive." Furious eyes met cool appraising ones, and swiftly to the offending people. "They're monsters!" he reiterated._

Vegeta looked at him, amusement dancing in his eyes. "In _your timeline, kid." He turned to the androids. "Would you like a cupcake?" his lips twitched, and he glanced casually at the ceiling. The two followed his gaze, and half smiled. "They're irritatingly sweet and strawberry flavored; they're positively disgusting." _

Once again, the twins exchanged laughing glances, but shook their heads, politely declining. "No thanks," Seventeen disclosed. "I'm none too fond of sweet things."

Eighteen rolled her eyes. "I always wondered why you so disliked me." She smirked. Seventeen, for his part, ignored her.

This was getting a bit too odd for Trunks. When they were up against each other, the two never seemed to understand he was _there, and continued talking as if he wasn't. It was frustrating, and made him feel that he wasn't even worth their full attention, which was probably true._

"So. What's there to do around here that's even partially interesting?" Seventeen wanted to know. Vegeta shrugged. 

Trunks decided he'd had enough. He could stomach only so much of this…

It didn't take him long to find Goku. He'd known him less than a day, and already he could find him as easily as he might have found his mother. He shook his head in bemusement, wondering how a person could be so trustworthy. When he got there he stopped so suddenly the ground screeched in protest, the wind following his motions in a miniature tornado at his feet. 

"The androids are at Capsule Corps," he began, speaking more calmly than he felt. "I think maybe we'd better get over there…Vegeta's…hmm…distracting them." 

Flying over a city that was far from a pile of rubble, the group made it to Capsule Corps in less time than Trunks had. Fortunately for their windows, they had more experience at coming to a sudden halt, and only mild noise was caused. The twins were clearly visible through the open door, and Vegeta had clearly reentered the picture.

"I've decided I'll have one of those charming cupcakes," Eighteen was saying. "And Mrs. Briefs was kind enough to give me some tea." Her legs were crossed in the most lady-like position Trunks had ever seen her in, and instead of seeming bored, the android looked amused. Content, even. 

Once again, Trunks didn't know what to say. 

"Well, look who's back. The kid brought some friends." Seventeen smirked. 

No one moved. They'd obviously noted that the androids, although a bit cynical, were not fighting. In fact, they didn't seem dangerous at all, in their eyes, but only Trunks had first hand experience with the two…although, to their credit, they _weren't the same two he'd been accustomed to. _

"Uh, Trunks? Don't you think maybe you're overeating a little?" Krillin asked tentatively, hoping he hadn't earned the wrath of a boy who, by the way it sounded, was far more powerful than him. Trunks glared at the androids, and didn't seem to notice the comment at all. Krillin sighed. 

Inside, Bulma broke off her discussion of the latest fashions with Eighteen long enough to consider what Trunks had already told them. "You know, in your time line, kid, the androids may have been evil to the core, bloodthirsty monsters. These two might _not be, you know? They haven't even attacked us!" she smiled reassuringly at Trunks, looking for a brief instant, like the mother he knew…_

Seventeen muttered something about being willing to confirming the bloodthirsty monsters bit, appearing entirely too bored for Trunks' comfort. 

"Listen." He sighed. "I'm going to the lab." Bulma nodded, absently giving directions Trunks didn't need, and he went down a spotless hall and into a laboratory with the supplies and power sources his mother would die for. He couldn't help but grin. Not only did he have unlimited access, he had a practically endless supply of materials, and workspace enough to last him awhile. The energy they had at home was limited, but here, he could do practically anything. 

He was free. No restrictions on designs. No limit to energy he could use for a small gadget. No expectations. 

Just total and complete _freedom. _

Happily, Trunks recalled the plans he and his mother had come up with years ago, and started to build a remote control. They hadn't had the chips they needed…and all the areas they could _get the supplies from to make them were totaled long before they realized they could be of some use. It could work. It really could…_

Even though he _didn't have any restrictions, Trunks found himself mapping out the design on as little paper as possible, and using old conservation tricks he'd grown up utilizing. He went through several sloppy copies, as his mom called them, before even beginning to gather the materials needed._

The organization was a little less organized than he was accustomed to, but he supposed that was due mostly to his grandfather's presence in the lab more than anything else. It really didn't take long to find things _anyways, so he wasn't too bothered by the lack of planning when putting things away. _

The body would need to be big enough to hold a bug-box capable of powering the entire room, but other than that, he didn't need to plan too large. It would end up being seven and a half by eighteen centimeters, with a width of one and a half. He found a sheet of thick plastic fairly easily, and enough copper wiring to last a few _years, with and silicon pieces that could very well be his savior. _

He happily bent over his materials, and began the delicate task of programming the chips. It'd taken him three or four years to completely master that, but with his mom for a tutor, he couldn't go wrong. He barely realized his Grandpa's presence when the old man came in to work, and both of them absently helped one another with calculations when they bothered to speak aloud. All in all, they didn't bother the other unless specifically noted.

Three hours and forty-five minutes later, he was halfway done, and ready to eat lunch. "Grandpa, I'm going to get some food…why don't you join me?"

The doctor murmured into his mustache, not looking up at his grandson. "No, that's alright, my dear, I'm afraid I've still got quite a bit of work to do on this here thing-a-ma-jig…I'll be down later to get a sandwich, I suppose?"  

Trunks nodded absently, and made his way up and out, heading into the kitchen. He decisively ignored the androids, and made only polite conversation while eating enough food to stuff an army, as Krillin said, and taking off with half that amount for a snack. 

"If I didn't know better, kid, I'd swear you were at LEAST half Saiyajin!" Krillin joked. "Where are you going with all that, anyway?"

"Lab…" Trunks replied, mouth full of salami, bread, and a handful of peanuts. 

"Can I come with you?" a small, quiet voice asked. Trunks blinked, and looked down to see a small, lean child that nearly reached his shoulders. He saw a mop of black hair, long, thick and dark, framing pale skin in the Celtic definition of beauty. Wide, dark eyes, looked up at him, forming an altogether sweet, trusting boy who couldn't have been more than eight or nine. Was this Gohan? The years had marked him with a shy smile, a hesitant voice, and given him reason to know sadness; it lurked behind his eyes, and within his smile. But there was joy, too, and laughter.

Love.

He stood there, staring at the child for a few moments, trying to get his mind in check. Trying to fathom what it meant to be older than your elder teacher who's never taught you. 

Surprisingly, Gohan wilted under his stare, mumbling something, "It's all right. I don't have to…" Trunks had to smile. The sweet, charming kid couldn't know what he meant to him…what he stood for in Trunks' mind. Even as a child, he was good and true, possessing every quality Trunks had admired about him to begin with.

"Oh! Of course, you don't need to ask me…sorry," he apologized, somehow embarrassed to have upset the boy. Hope rose in Gohan's eyes, and he looked cautiously up at the lavender haired teen. "I'm kinda out of it today…" 

The grin transformed Gohan into a fun loving, slightly goofy kid that couldn't _possibly be upset; Trunks had to return the favor, amused and pleased at this sudden change. Immediately after, Gohan began pelting him with questions about his objective, how he planned on getting there, what kinds of materials he needed, and many other things Trunks __quite lost track of. He laughed affectionately, surprised by his intelligence and understanding._

Odd, how their roles were reversed. Gohan had always been _his older-brother-figure, not the other way around. _

Did Gohan ever feel like this, when he'd been asking-- begging --him to teach what he knew? Charmed, and a bit taken aback by his enthusiasm…? 

Distantly he knew Krillin was laughing at him, telling Gohan something about calming down, and needing to keep a close eye on the two of them. Trunks was too busy reflecting, and stuffing cherry cobbler in his mouth. "Listen, Gohan, why don't you help Trunks carry his, uh, snack downstairs?" Krillin was saying, gently pulling a few things out of his precariously balanced armload of food. 

"Okay!" he chirped. Trunks looked from one to the other, not sure he should relinquish his prize when he'd only recently taken hold of it. 

Krillin, catching sight of his expression, snickered uncontrollably. "Typical Saiyajin expression; try to take food away, and they get possessive," he laughed. 

Gohan looked at Trunks. They both shrugged. 

The distance between the kitchen and the workroom was thankfully short, for even with two extra helpers, Trunks wasn't sure he could keep hold of all that food and eat at the same time…he couldn't _remember the last time he'd been allowed to eat his fill…it was heavenly. He chewed happily on an apple, savoring the soft, sweet flavor and texture. __Note to self, he thought. __One more reason to fight for peace: you get to eat more._

Filing into the room one at a time, they carefully set the long table reserved for food or projects of a more assembly-line-like structure. Doctor Briefs wandered over and picked a particularly tasty looking sandwich. "Thank you, my boy, quite tasty," he noted, chewing mechanically as he went back to work. "Do tell your Grandmother she's done another fine job at cooking, won't you?" 

Trunks nodded absently, and wandered back over to his worktable. Gohan followed at a respectable distance, Krillin at his side, eager to see what kind of project he'd been locked away with for the past _long time. His blue prints, small, cramped and to proportion were as squished together as he could make them, with the formulas, notations, and theories he needed written in cramped short hand. Needless to say, unless you happened to be the creator, or his teacher, it made not one wit of sense. _

Krillin took a step back warily, partly amused, partly mortified, and more than a little bewildered.  "Geeze, Trunks! What _is that?" he inquired, aghast. _

Trunks brushed his hands off, ready to get back to work now that all the spoilable treats had been demolished. "It's a remote control to shut down the androids," he replied, picking up a tiny pen especially wired to program chips. "Mom an' me designed it a few years ago, but our lab was completely wrecked…we don't have access to the types of things needed…here, I do." 

Krillin blinked. "Shut them _down? Trunks, do you mean to __kill them?" he asked, waving his arms furiously. Trunks anchored his blue prints absently with a screwdriver that happened to be lying around. "They haven't DONE anything, though!"_

Trunks didn't lift an eyebrow. "It won't permanently disable them, Krillin. Just temporarily so I can reprogram them…hopefully to _not destroy cities, massacre millions, and generally enjoy bloodshed. Their creator happened to be an insane genius with a want for vengeance." He sat down, floating the various tools he wanted within easy reach._

Gohan strained to see the outline, curiosity bright in his large eyes. Trunks knew he was an intelligent person, but when he'd known him, Gohan never had time for idle interest; he didn't have time for eating, much less for progressive experimentation. Suddenly he had to wonder if the design would even start, if their plan was conceivable…the entire thing was based on theory…he'd never _seen the androids mechanisms before. He'd no idea how they worked._

 "You write small," Gohan noted, with all the gravity of small children imparting some all-important fact. He squinted, turning his head slightly, as if a new perspective would reveal the meaning. He frowned, looking puzzled. "But why do you need that thing? What is it, anyway?"

"It's an energy converter…moves the currents through this," he tapped the metallic box, "which is called a funnel, for obvious reasons." He smiled, and knocked it experimentally. "Mom developed the idea a while ago, and specifically detailed it over time."

Gohan looked from the blue prints to the half-assembled funnel, eyes widening in surprise and some confusion. "But why? Wouldn't it be the same as making direct connections to individual parts?" Trunks grinned. If done correctly, that _would work._

"That's it precisely. But the wiring would have to be very detailed, very thorough, and with all the problem spots down perfectly," he paused. "It'd end up being more work than it's worth."

Blinking, Gohan looked from one end of the table to the other. "No it wouldn't…not unless it'd blow a fuse with too much power, right? It looks like you're programming your own chips, too! The wiring shouldn't be too difficult compared to that."

Grandpa Briefs looked up, pulling his moustache experimentally. "Why ever would you want to do that by hand?" he looked puzzled. "If your pre-work is done correctly, then that computer could do it for you! If it wasn't right, then you can refigure it until it _does come out the way you want it to be." He nodded to himself, unconcerned with Trunks' response. "I developed that machine myself, you know. Got tired of having this and that specialist running to and fro, doing more programming to that machine to program the left one than it was worth. Silly little buggers. Never made a wit of sense."_

Trunks blinked, slightly embarrassed. What could he say to that? "Oh." He shrugged. "Well, I guess I'm used to it…we lost too much technology to be able to complete anything of real value…and besides, I've grown up programming everything myself."

"So why not connect it directly?" Gohan persisted. "How do you program something that little? The information's all compacted…" he hesitated. "Right?"

Trunks nodded absently. "Short hand. When I'm done, the processor will know the abbreviations better than the codes," he said simply. "It helps to have experience…" 

Gohan shook his head, baffled.

Krillin laughed, but seemed to agree with Gohan. "You went waaaay over my ability to imagine," he grinned. "That thing isn't exactly very big…how could your _gigantic tools get the job done?" he grinned._

Trunks shrugged, and smiled, guessing Krillin wasn't interested in his answer so much as hearing the silence filled with something other than metallic clinks and the slight buzzing the systems in place already made. Bending over a particularly detailed chip design-- the layers went too deep for this level of sight --Trunks frowned. _Hmm… Absently he began to analyze Gohan's question, hardly noticing he was speaking. "The funnel directs the minimum amount of energy required to keep the device functioning at a constant rate. To directly connect the source to the output device would make that impossible…too much energy would be wasted." He half smiled, shifting everything above him with a gentle pulse of chi to get the items where he wanted them…above his head so he could lie down._

"It couldn't be that much of a difference…" Gohan murmured, before going back to another question he'd asked… "Would too much blow a fuse?" Unfortunately for Trunks, the kid spoke too quickly and moved from one topic to another too rapidly to get everything addressed. _Wonder if Mom ever felt this way…? _

Trunks blinked. "I don't…know…" 

"So energy is that scarce? It's to the point where you have to conserve a nickel's worth to get anything important done? And even _then you have to use it sparingly?"_

"Uh…pretty much."

"This must be pretty wild for you then, huh?" Krillin asked, looking expectantly at the taller youth. 

"Yeah…" he shifted uncomfortably, and smiled suddenly, once again pleased by the sheer _amount of things available. "It's…interesting. We could never have built something as delicate as this, even with the substitutes available…it makes things…difficult."_

"I would think so."

After that, things quieted down for a while, with Gohan and Krillin assisting where they could. Oftentimes the two would serve as an extra pair of hands, holding something down or-- very rarely --assisting in the actual programming. By the time dinner rolled around, the three of them were tired, strained, and ready for a break. His arm was hurting and his neck was sore.

The other two decided, or more correctly, Krillin made the decision for the both of them, guessing what Gohan's mother's opinion would be, to visit with friends and family, and leave the scientist work to Trunks. The androids were _still there, but no one was quite sure how to treat them. Vegeta handled the twins for the most part, and everyone else stayed well out of their way. _

By the sounds of it, they'd gotten around to playing a card game…something to do with fishing, and matching numbers… Trunks decided he had too much work to do to detail the specifics on the game.

He retreated to the lab with his Grandfather, and began work once again, picking up right where he left off before the snack. A few more minutes to a half hour would probably do it…then he could test the damned thing. _Kami, I need a break… _

And then, it was done. 

He smiled, and tucked the blue prints safely in the filing cabinet, locking away the design and process for later use. There were a few things Gohan had helped him develop that may very well be used for later projects…maybe something that could lower the charge time of the time machine even…he couldn't wait to show his mother, and wondered how she'd react when he told her Gohan, a small child at this point, had contributed. 

He walked carefully down the hall, and into the living room where the trio sat, gathered around a small coffee table. No one bothered to look up at his arrival, which suited his purposes very well. He hit the button, and watched the two figures collapse with much satisfaction. It worked. 

He grinned. Vegeta glowered. 

"Why did you disable my opponents?" he growled, a dangerous edge to his voice. Trunks rolled his eyes.

"Reprogramming. Now, would you mind? I could use some help with this part…" he leaned over, and half pushed, half pulled the unconscious Seventeen off the couch and into his arms. 

Vegeta didn't move. 

He rolled his eyes, and gestured to Eighteen. "Please." 

The Saiyajin prince slowly shuffled the cards he'd been holding into a neat pile, his eyes trained on Trunks. The teenager didn't move.  Finally, he nodded, and Trunks mentally prepared himself for another long haul.

This would be a long day.

*****

tbc…

The next chapter should be up by Friday, November 1st. 

Thanks muchly so to Orlando_Sky and Late as Usual! *Grins* comments make me smile…To the former, thanks for the compliment! I try to keep Goku as In Chara as possible, but I may not always be right…feel free to tell me when he starts behaving Out of Chara. As to the date thing, this will hopefully keep up 'till the end of the story, but…*shrugs* I've only been able to post lately because it's already been written and is going through the editing process. (Thank my lovely editor for the grammar check, and his attempts to keep my pieces on track…so far it hasn't worked too well.) 

Late as Usual…hmm…sounds like me. Spell check is a marvelous thing. *Laughs* you don't wanna see any of my writing w/o it! Thanks for the compliment, by the way.

For all of you who are getting bored, things will start picking up in the next two chapters, so please be patient. Any and all suggestions, comments, criticism, rants and/or letters are always welcome. After all, borrowing from one of many DBZ themes, you can't get stronger if no one's challenging you. I'm not saying I want an evil green grass hopper to try to kill me, but a really harsh critique would really help me grow as an author. 

Also, it's kinda nice to know if I'm doing anything right.


	4. Chapter 4

**Warnings: AU, very OoC (hopefully only on Vegeta's part), confusion, and just plain oddness. Beware of angst and tired teenagers.**

**Disclaimer: Dragon Ball Z does not belong to me. I am not making any profit from this story. **

Dragon Ball and all logos, character names and distinctive likenesses thereof are trademarks of TOEI ANIMATION ©2002 BIRD STUDIO/SHUEISHA, TOEI ANIMATION. They are licensed by FUNimation® Productions, Ltd. All Rights Reserved, which means I have absolutely no right to do this…I'm not making any profit off this whatsoever. ****

Losing Innocence 

            by Taes Willett

**Chapter 4**

With the joined effort of three scientific geniuses, Bulma, Trunks and his Grandpa, it took twelve hours to finish the work on both androids. Everyone else pitched in where they could, but between Trunks' arm and the others' fatigue, more people just complicated things unnecessarily. Nevertheless, the job was completed.

Throughout the night, Zarbon had wandered in and out of the room, bothering Bulma with this and that, and holding a bawling child as he did so. It irritated Trunks to no end, but for the most part he couldn't lift his head to check the time, much less watch an infant version of himself cling to the blue skinned stranger…that was just _too odd. _

He certainly wished he'd been a _quieter baby._

When it was done, they "flipped the switch on" as Krillin put it, and two annoyed, sleepy androids muttered something about being sore and promptly went to sleep. Trunks frowned irritably, not in the least sympathetic. _They hadn't been performing the mechanical version of brain surgery for the past…long time. _

Suddenly, the day felt a _lot longer. Trunks sat down, and glared at the crying baby Bulma had finally taken up. Then he stopped. Stared. _

Something was seriously wrong here…

For starters, he didn't have green hair, and most certainly was _not blue. _

_I think the time has come I quit putting this off and get a few things straightened out… he reasoned, head in his hands. __Before I go insane and kill somebody who doesn't deserve to be slaughtered.  _

Distantly he was aware of Goku's hand on his shoulder, a surprisingly comforting presence amidst this chaos. 

He looked up, and surveyed the gathered fighters, friends and family. "What in Kami's name is _wrong with you people?" he demanded. Everyone stopped talking, and turned to regard him, expressions of startled curiosity that told clearly of their opinions of him. _

They thought he was nuts.

He laughed shortly, and stared ahead blankly. "Nothing about this planet is right," he continued. "Freeza didn't come to earth. The androids aren't as strong as they are, and Zarbon. Is. Here." 

_And not dead…he added silently. Knowing his mother, it wouldn't be a good idea to include that part._

He leaned against the wall. His mother. "That never happened. You have a _son," _

_And he's not me. I don't exist. _

He gave a frustrated sigh, and dragged himself to his feet, entire body grumbling at the forced movement, his voice rising with every word. "Vegeta is a drunkard, and nobody gives a damn." He poised each word as a dagger, aiming for the heart as his father had, trying to get a reaction. No one moved. No one breathed. "What happened to you people?" he quieted suddenly, and slowly observed the assembled body. 

 "When did you become too selfish to care about others?" The noise level had dropped significantly, so his words, barely whispered, carried far, and they carried the gravity his yelling hadn't brought to the table. "Even the enemy?"  WHAT'S HE TALKING ABOUT?

He sagged against the wall, and mentally counted off the hours he'd been without sleep. _Too many, he decided. Best not to tally them. Without waiting for a reply, he solved equations that seemed no easier now than the first time he'd come across them, and wished silently for his mother's lab, and warm, accepting embrace._

He'd done his duty. He didn't need this from them… No one could blame him. 

So why did he feel as if he were a completely arrogant fool? 

*****

 "TRUNKS!" his mother screamed. Well, maybe she wasn't screaming…maybe his ears were just too sensitive for his own good. "Do you have any idea how worried I've been? We messed up, sweetie…I did some research, based on the information you gave me…I've no clue _how you wound up where you did, but it isn't right." All this came in a rush, as if she'd been trying to say something planned, something that made sense, and thought that if it weren't said now, then it would never be understood. _

Then again, that could be accounted for his slow processing brain.

She put a hand on his forehead while she methodically stuck a thermometer in his mouth, pushing a cool cloth on his head. He didn't bother wondering when she'd gotten them, or why she found it necessary to check his health at a time like this. He just wanted to sleep. "It's not linear. It operates on a completely different scale than we'd been assuming…x, y, z…" she sighed. "All that work…!"

 "Gohan and me--" he began.

 "--I--"

 "Gohan and _I came up with a possibility…" He paused, trying to make sure she was paying attention. The thermometer was getting in his way, so he took it out, and looked directly at his mother, trying to keep her image from shaking. "Might make the charge take less time…connect the funnel to the switch directory, and add that bunny-shaped thing…" he yawned. "With the green light."_

 "The reactor?" Bulma queried, confused. 

 "…I dunno…" 

She frowned, and materialized a blanket from nowhere. "Go to sleep, Trunks. We'll talk about this in the morning." She bent over to straighten his hair, murmuring a soft good night. "What did you think you were doing…?" she wondered, not really expecting an answer. 

She didn't have the slightest chance of receiving one; Trunks was fast asleep. 

*****

For a long time, everyone just stared. Single-handedly, Trunks had constructed a device Bulma had said was impossible to conceive, that the 'control' seemed more complex than she could handle. In short, she admitted a teenager was more advanced than she, even though she hadn't said this in so many words, and held her son close, rocking the baby back and forth. Zarbon declined comment. Yet this same boy remained blind to the fact that men were born with the ability to resist their natural instincts to destroy; Goku was living proof of that, and Zarbon as well, to some extent.

How could such an intelligent young man be so stubborn? None of his claims made sense…

Vegeta chuckled, a low, menacing sound that set everyone's teeth on edge and reminded them of dark nights where the rain and thunder drowned out all other night sounds, leaving the sleepers restless and ill at ease for days on end after. "Well." He smirked. "That," he nodded to the place Trunks had disappeared from, "was amusing."

No one knew quite what to say to that, so for the most part, they remained silent, if a bit agitated. Goku, on the other hand, was calm and collected as could be hoped. He drew back from his now solitary area to stand between Vegeta and Gohan as if to lend the two some of his understanding or simply be a reassuring presence. Saddened by Trunks' abrupt departure, and confused at his reactions to natural occurrences, Goku tried to offer what he could, and to not get in the way when he lacked what was needed. Knowing your father was neither completely stable nor your _father would be a difficult thing to face, especially for a young man._

Trunks never knew his father, as a boy should. He learnt life's lessons the hard way; by experiencing them himself and struggling out the possible solutions, and dealing with the consequences. He was older than his years, and it showed in everything he did. He was quiet, reflective, and mature as only he could be. When he would behave as a teenage would, he struggled against his natural impulse to the point of paralysis, and even then he fought himself. It was a war he couldn't win, but his efforts were commendable. 

He needed to be a kid. To let others make decisions for him, and live life out of the shadow anger, pain and suffering left behind. He deserved to be free to make choices where the world didn't matter so much, and concentrate on what he was truly talented in.

He was Vegeta's son. Too proud to admit defeat, filled with fiery passion that would burn him alive without the cool restraint his personality leant him. Like his father, he was arrogant enough to believe he would never need help. 

He was Bulma's child. He bore her intelligence, grace and poignant beliefs, and her willingness to devote herself entirely. Like his mother, he was a wonder with math and science. 

He was a child of pride and passion, a mystery that would never be unraveled, and a boy who'd been forced to stand on his own too quickly. Like Vegeta. 

Like Gohan. 

Looking around again, grinning in hopes of cheering them up, Goku pulled Gohan forward and spun him around, careful not to hit doors, chairs or walls of any sort. His son laughed in quiet surprise, grinning from ear to ear. Everyone smiled. Vegeta's lips twitched, though it was hard to say if it was for irritation, amusement, or scorn. "We should get cleaning," Goku said simply, setting his son on his feet again. "The lab is a _mess!" he picked up something barely distinguishable from the table._

Bulma giggled, hiding her grin behind one hand.

 "What is this, anyways?" he peered at it sideways, sniffing curiously. Krillin laughed. "Is this a garden hose?" once again he tested the air, and wrinkled his nose. "Yuck. Sandwich crumbs…" he trailed off. 

He went around the room slowly, asking every few seconds what was salvageable, what wasn't, and where it went for either case. No one else seemed too interested in lending a hand, and settled back to watch the man clean. He picked two ends of something up, and blinked innocently at them. "What does this do?" 

Out of his hands a brilliant shock of blue-white energy came forth, and traveled down the startled man's arms and body. He dropped it in utter shock. "Gohan, don't touch that…" he advised, and backed slowly away, energy dancing across the tips of his spiky hair and down his clothing. 

Everyone else struggled not to laugh, and Gohan blushed sheepishly, and began to help his Dad pick up. 

 "Hey there!" a cheerful voice greeted. Goku jumped, hitting his head on a low hanging piece of lab equipment. "What are you guys doing?" Trunks asked       quizzically. 

Once again, nobody moved, sure this was to be another awkward moment. Vegeta unconsciously leaned forward in anticipation. 

Trunks made a face at the trashed room. "What happened in here?"

Goku laughed in surprise, grinning easily. "How'd you get back so fast?" and then, "Do you know how to Instant Transmission too?" 

Laughing, Trunks shook his head. "Fast?" he marveled. It'd been a few weeks to his way of thinking. "No, I used the time machine…it's in my head right now." 

A chorus of "…oh…" greeted this statement, nearly in unison, surpisingly.

Gohan smiled tentatively, and held up a piece of scrap wire. "Are you feeling okay now?" 

Shrugging, Trunks looked from one person to another, a faint blush spreading across his face. "Yeah…sorry about that, by the way." He looked away, embarrassed, and ran his fingers through his hair. "I was tired. I know that's not an excuse, and I've lived through worse and not been so pig headed but I'm rambling now so I guess I'll stop." He fidgeted nervously.

Vegeta raised an eyebrow elegantly. "So . . . you figured it out."

Trunks nodded. "You could say that," he paused, half amused at the memory. "Me and Mom plugged in the wrong equations…" he frowned at that statement, sensing there was something wrong with that train of thought. "Which is to say, we created the wrong ones and solved them incorrectly." Supposing that would have to do, he looked from one person to another, trying to figure out if they understood what he was talking about. Unfortunately, he was met with blank looks. 

Hesitant, and a bit unsure of what to say, he continued with his explanation. "She said something about it being based on an x-y-z axis and not x-y, and something to do with an irregular function." He shrugged, deciding that maybe a shorter version would be best understood. "In other words, this is a different universe than I was expecting. We got that figured out though, and I went back to _our past, and helped out there." He blushed again. This was where things started getting a tad embarrassing, especially when considering his mistakes. "We stopped the androids," Trunks said helpfully, looking at Vegeta quickly before looking away. "And then there was this whole messy business with an evil thing called Cell…I ended up dying, and learning a few tricks from…by the way?" he interrupted himself, sensing he was getting off track. "Goku? Can I talk to you?" _

Krillin wrinkled his nose, and settled back onto his feet, wishing that soft-spoken, polite people would be kind enough to let him eavesdrop without actually putting some effort into it. 

Goku nodded, sincerely puzzled, but interested. "Sure, Trunks!" he smiled, and made his way out of the room, nodding in apology to the others. "So what was I like in the other universe?" he wondered. "And everyone else?"

Laughing, he lead the way out of the house and into the yard, smiling at the older Saiyajin, something like respect and a sense of affection lighting his face. "I really like you, Goku…you've been nice to me since we met, and have made a really good impression." He hesitated, and looked back to the house. "You were exactly the same here and there…Dad…was different. He didn't like me at first, but I think he did at the end…he got mad when I died." He looked away, embarrassed. "He was proud, arrogant, and powerful. The fighter I always wanted to be, but not exactly the friendliest of people…" he trailed off, and met Goku's eyes cautiously. "Can I ask you a favor?"

 "Sure, Trunks. What can I do for you?" he smiled reassuringly, ever helpful. 

Trunks looked at his feet, and fidgeted. "I want Dad to be himself again…and I don't have the kind of stuff it takes to enforce anything I say to him…but you could…help. Get him to stop drinking." He looked up, still hesitant. "He needs a friend," 

His expression softened, and understanding filled his eyes. A goofy grin swiftly covered the look, and Goku nodded empathetically. "Sure thing!" The picture of childish innocence in a compassionate heart...odd, how those two things could be evident in one person, when in most everyone else, it was one or the other. "I was worried about him too…" 

Mirroring Goku's grin, Trunks settled into a relaxed stance, filled with peace and the sure knowledge that everything would be taken care of. "Just tell me what to do, and I'll do it," He said sincerely.  

Goku nodded. "I know. Now…go to sleep, why don't you?"

Trunks laughed in good humor, quiet and satisfied. "No way. The world is changing, Goku, and it'll be far better than I could ever imagine. I couldn't sleep now!" his eyes danced, and there was energy to his step that had been lacking a few moments before. "Listen, I'm going to help the others clean up." He lifted his head to the wind, and his lips twitched upwards in a smile of complete bliss. "After that, I think I'll spend some time outside…it's nice out." With that, he headed into the building, ready to help once more.

Goku shook his head in mild disbelief, and followed him inside.

*****

For the next few weeks, life was a wonderful, if chaotic, breeze. Vegeta remained his usual self, and more than once he was dead drunk before Goku came around. The tall Saiyajin would frown, lecture, and help the older man regain his senses, all the while reminding him not to do that. The alcohol in the house was hidden, but despite their efforts, no one could keep the determined Saiyajin from getting what he wanted. 

Apparently, what he wanted included an aching head, an irate friend, and an overly worried son he didn't know existed. It frustrated Trunks to no end.

Trying to keep out of their way as often as possible, Trunks would spend his time with Gohan, devising experiments to help along the boy's studies, and generally playing around the lab in ways he'd never been aloud as a child. They made things as large as they wanted, and worked under the theory that more was better, and added a few smoke stains to the ceiling of whatever lab they practiced in. They built, they demolished, and they still managed to use far less than anyone else. 

And they trained. Gohan taught Trunks, much to his embarrassment and pleasure, and Trunks taught Gohan. In this timeline, the boy had yet to reach Super Saiyajin, but that would be remedied shortly, Trunks had no doubt. After all, the kid was already more powerful than he was, and he had more than a few sparring partners to build off of. The boy was smart, but didn't think too much, as Trunks had. He based his attacks of previous encounters, and modified without pausing, pushing himself to his limits for reasons unknown.

Privately, he suspected it was Gohan's failure to believe he could stand up for anything that forced him so far. For his failures, defeats, and moments of weakness, Gohan would become everything Trunks strived to be. It was both inspiring and intimidating, and more than often, it was maddening. What did you _do with a student who outclassed you, yet had no ability to see how far he'd come?_

And how the hell did you focus his energy?

For the most part, he channeled the excessive amounts of enthusiasm, strength, and curiosity into experiments, both with science and spirit. Piccolo was more than happy to help, and every now and again, they'd show Vegeta what they learned. For the most part, he was a silent observer, and offered neither advice nor scorn.

Goku worked with Vegeta in the most obscure ways possible, taking the older Saiyajin to restaurants, beaches, malls, and other things that had absolutely nothing in common with one another. One time, the two of them went to an astrology center with Gohan and Trunks coming along for the heck of it. It was there they heard him really laugh, and smile at the foolishness of the human's theories, even though there was an edge of cruelty to his remarks.

They'd visited art museums, which was something of a wonder in itself to Trunks. The androids came with them as well, and Trunks spent hours staring in utter shock at the displays, and the variety of color, content, balance and light. This was surely the highlight of humanity. There were other museums that concentrated on science, and Trunks was amused to find he knew most of the concepts behind the displays, as did Gohan. This proved more humorous than enlightening, and they made the trip the shortest possible, narrowing down a daylong procedure to a mater of two hours.  

Seventeen stayed with his sister for the better part of the day, but would disappear for a time, and return hours later, without giving a word of explanation. 

Eighteen took up painting, imitating the styles of artists well known for their realistic natures and emotional content. Krillin began spending time with her, offering assistance and advice, enjoying the process alongside her. She wasn't very good in the beginning, but after a time, she began to improve. The ideas she generated were inspiring. 

Vegeta did little, looking out windows and contemplating unknown theories by himself, unmoved by the people around him. But he kept Goku's company, and never broke an arrangement. He drank less.

Trunks was happy.

 "What do you say," Krillin began, dipping his paintbrush into a mix of blues, violets and grays, looking around the room to the people gathered, "we throw Goku a birthday party." 

Eighteen shrugged, not looking up. "Sure." Seventeen mirrored her movements, looking about as interested as a brick wall. 

 "Whatever, shortie." He grinned. "So long as there's food, count me in."

Krillin had to laugh. "Food? At a Saiyajin party? You don't even have to _ask, Seventeen my man!" he waved the paintbrush enthusiastically, spraying paint across the carpet. Making a face at the mess, and groaning at the prospect of cleaning it up, he decided he hadn't noticed such a stain, and went back to painting the sky on the far wall of the dining room. _

Trunks grinned, and looked at Gohan. "What do you think?"

Gohan nodded happily, pleased to be a part of the situation. "Sure! Let's throw Dad a party!" he grinned. "Can I help decorate?"

Krillin winked. "Only if you don't tell your Dad, and if you can convince your Mom to make one of her cakes…" 

 "Okay!"  
Laughing, Trunks nodded. "Bulma can be in charge of inviting everyone, and playing dictator." He grinned. "She'd like that."

Seventeen snickered. "You bet she would."

Krillin groaned. "Oh, no! Not Bulma! She'll yell!" 

Eighteen smirked. "Which is why she should do it. You lazy people wouldn't get anything done, otherwise." She flipped her hair, eyes shining. Adding a dab of some off-white mixture to the wall, she stepped back to evaluate her work. She made a face, and moved in closer to attempt to fix wherever she found flaw. 

 "Hey," Krillin flipped paint at her. "No fair. Just because you're perfect and I can't tease you about anything doesn't mean you get automatic rights to poking fun at me." He turned around in mock indignation, smiling to himself. 

Trunks tried hard not to laugh.

 "Who said I needed rights?" Eighteen wondered, trying to sound arrogant and uncaring. _Funny, how when she tries to sound like her__ she sounds more human…Trunks thought._

 "I'll go tell Bulma…" Trunks murmured, and waited an instant to see whether or not Gohan decided to follow. He didn't, preferring to work on the assignment his mother had given him for the evening. Trunks rolled his eyes, deciding he'd better leave now if he didn't want to be pulled into another _stirring conversation. _

*****

They decided on a week from the day it was planned to be the official day. Naturally, everyone who knew the big goof wanted to pitch in, and the whole process was one insane mess of one person parading in with large boxes to Master Roshi's house, and scrambling back home because they left something. The number of collisions seemed to be rising with a slope of three hits per minute, and steadily becoming more and more dangerous to the items surrounding the people. 

Anything glass was moved up and _out of the way as banners were hung, balloons blown, and decorations put up. _

Half an hour into the business, Chichi arrived with the food, and enlisted half the men to help her organize, carry and store foods of varying sorts. The sight of it all made Trunks' mouth water; he'd been staying at Capsule Corps, and unlike_ his mother, Bulma had either no talent or no time for cooking. He and Gohan were repeatedly reminded that the food was for the party, not their appetites. _

Zarbon wandered around on errands for his wife, toting their small child with an irritated expression on his face, looking ready to shred the next streamer he came across. Fortunately or not, that would warrant an ear splitting lecture from Bulma, so the brightly colored things remained unharmed. For the time being. Until then, Zarbon was irritated, and lashed out at anyone who attempted to make a conversation with him.

As Krillin and Yamcha struggled to hang a 'Happy birthday, Goku!' banner, the screen door opened with a creak. Everyone froze. 

 "Someone mentioned a party." Vegeta greeted, and slid past a row of chairs deemed to hideous for use that had been vanquished to the foyer to be dusted, polished and conditioned. At that point in time, no one had figured out exactly how to condition a chair. 

Zarbon scowled. "And who happened to say _that?" he growled._

Trunks looked up from a punch bowl. "I did." Zarbon glared daggers. _Hmm. Still some old issues between these two…_

Ignoring Trunks, the man shifted Keichei to a more comfortable position, somehow managing to look intimidating with a tiny child hugging his shirt. "This isn't your party. Go home. Friends only."

Vegeta pointedly looked away from the blue tinged man. "How long until the damn thing starts?" 

 "Not long," Trunks replied, and busied himself with the cups. 

 "So get out."  He grumbled.

Vegeta snorted. "Why should I listen to you?"

Laughter erupted from the proud warrior, dark, cruel and beautiful all at once; it was exactly as Trunks pictured the man. "Oh, Vegeta, you never learned, did you?" malice glinted in his amethyst eyes like fire beneath the smoke, bright, brilliant and deadly.

Vegeta's eyes narrowed, pride and ill feelings against the man surfacing in his face. His tail twitched irritably, and annoyance flared beneath his cool demeanor. "And what, Zarbon, do you mean by _that?"_

Lips curling in shadowy amusement, the tall man inclined his head as if acknowledging something. Sensing something wrong, Trunks tensed, unsure of what to do. "After all, under someone like Freeza's tutelage, one would think you'd learn something." He snorted. "Suppose that says something for your mentality, now doesn't it?"

Vegeta raised an eyebrow sardonically, anger flashing behind dark eyes. "Really." 

Unperturbed, Zarbon continued, slowly sharpening each barbed insult with the care and delicacy of one who enjoys suffering. His voice dropped to a barely audible sound to human ears, but remained quite clear to most of the fighters present. "You need a lesson, Prince Vegeta," he began, scorn and mockery lacing the words. The sentence took on a meaning all its own, doubling its role and proceeding to lay the ground for yet more to come. "And there's no one here but me to give it."

Laughing shortly, Vegeta stared in disbelief, doubt and fear flickering for an instant in his eyes. Then he shook his head, proud as could be. "I doubt you could do what the almighty _Freeza could not, Zarbon." He sneered. "Dearest." _

Amused, Zarbon's eyebrows raised. "Yet another reminder of your glorious days under Freeza." He paused. "Bloodshed, grief and murder all in a day, with a nice, long rut with your men in between to keep the soldiers motivated."

The blood drained from Vegeta's face. Trunks stared, no longer bothering with the pretense of arranging cups.

 "You don't know a thing about me Zarbon," he began. Zarbon lifted a hand for silence, smirking. 

 "Ah, death, how motivating you can be." He paused. "Why don't you tell them how you massacred millions, Prince Vegeta, lord of all Saiyajin…" he trailed off, and dropped his pitch, raising his voice a measure to be heard clearly by all. "…bed slave to any who wanted a filthy monkey." 

Vegeta said nothing, trying to keep him in check, the muscles in his cheeks twitched, and he straightened. His tail wrapped around his waste in a clear motion of discomfort and peril. "You're right, Zarbon." He paused. "I killed people." He glared at the tall alien, hatred flaming in his obsidian eyes. "As did you."

Laughing shortly, Zarbon shook his head in disbelief. "You would make no distinction between us, oh prince, but you are forgetting one thing." He snorted. "Freeza ruled me with fear, and you, Vegeta, he ruled with lust..." He smirked, undaunted by Vegeta's warning growl, "…for blood, body and power.

 "I knew you to be evil when I first met you, all those years ago. As a child, you were cruel, careless, and mad with desire. Selfish. Uncaring, even though _your people _died for your father, you neither shed a drop of blood nor tears for the man." His expression darkened. "Worthless.

 "Lord Freeza gave you want you needed; a cause. A reason to kill." He snorted, all amusement gone from his voice, conviction carrying the hatred of his words deep into their hearts. "You lived for that, and you, prince…? You loved him for it. Tell them, Vegeta, about your experience with Freeza.

 "Tell them about your father, who died for you, and how you never once showed mercy, never once fought for a true cause." He laughed. "Go on, tell them about the _real you. Tell them about Prince Vegeta, Freeza's personal whore..." _

Zarbon trailed off, and the silence between the accusations was filled with words unspoken. One after another, those gathered looked away from Vegeta, not daring to meet his eyes. Memories surfaced in their minds, examples of the cruelty Vegeta so willingly expressed, and his cruel laughter echoed eerily in their minds. They knew it to be true. He _was_ a murderer…he'd proven it again and again, taking pleasure in the blood. 

But the other claims…they could neither prove nor refute them. He was a private individual, and only Zarbon could testify for his past. What the longhaired man did _not_ say would remain unspoken. Truth be told, it was what they didn't know that frightened them. 

Silence masks all things, past, present and future. 

Through it all, Vegeta remained quiet, barely moving except to breathe. And then he broke. "All right, Zarbon." He began quietly, his voice devoid of all traces of emotion. "I'll tell them about my nights, if you insist," he paused, and waited, lifting an eyebrow. Silence. "No? I thought not. Why would you want to hear about the dark, the blood and the madness that drove me onward when life so clearly told me to stop?" He snorted. "I'll tell you, Zarbon, second in command of an empire that slaughtered billions," he sneered, contempt clear in his voice, "about death.

 "It isn't beautiful," he shook his head ruefully, almost as if he wished it to be otherwise, "and it isn't painless. It's slow, decisive, and about as unemotional as life can be." Lips twitching in suppressed fury, amusement, or depression, he exhaled and slowly took a breath. "In the best instances, it's conceivable, and a sure fact that the dying can accept with ease." He laughed, a low, dark sound that penetrated the walls and made the very earth tremble. Trunks found himself easing away from his father and towards the nearest exit. "I became what people fear most, because it gave me joy. 

 "I was death, and I took what should have been mine with more pride than anyone. I killed them slowly, painfully, and without remorse.

 "I was merciless.

 "Like death.

 "I was cruel.

 "Like you.

 "I was, and am, empty. I'll be forever dead." He turned aside, not noticing the expressions of the fighters, barely aware of his own breathing, of the tears that fell to the ground. "If you'd like, Zarbon, I'll show you what it means to die by the hands of a man who truly knows death." He shrugged. 

The front door opened with its usual creak, disrupting the momentary silence with the impact of an avalanche on a peaceful mountain. No one had to look up to know who was at the door. There wasn't a person missing besides he, and his aura gave him away without the benefit of sight. Vegeta ignored Goku's presence, not bothering to acknowledge him, and nodded curtly to Zarbon.

With a prince's dignity, pride and cool assurance, Vegeta met the eyes of the assembled group, and spoke. "Until then…" he brushed by the others and out the door, heedless of their stares, of their surprise and discomfort. He was gone before they had time to breathe. 

And then there was silence.

***** 

tbc

The next chapter should be up by Friday, November 8th. That's the hope, at leas. *Smiles* that happens to be the only free day I have between the premier and the next performance…which means I might sleep. 

Many thanks to Sam, UnromanticPoetess, and DbzShark. *Grins* reviews are very helpful, and tend to make me happy. Your feedback is always appreciated…

Sam: thanks for the compliment! This is the last chapter where events mirror Felix's story, so yes, Trunks continues to be a major player in this story…for a long while, anyways. I'm not too sure where things will end, but I have an idea where I'm going. Sort of.

UnromanticPoetess: *Silly grin* well, I hope this one continues being serious, and doesn't become too silly…Hope I didn't sound too mean/harsh or anything while reviewing…I tend to say what I think. Sometimes that bothers people. *Shrugs* I do hope you go back and edit "When in Disgrace" because I liked it…and it would be muchly interesting if you went back and edited it like you do with your others. 

Thank goodness for editors, or I'd sound like an idiot. *Laughs* like I am right now. *grins* one thing I don't edit are these little rants…which is why they tend to be long, and littered with lots of laughs, grins, and other action 'icons.' 

Thank you for the compliments…I try to focus on the details of things…hoping it doesn't take away from everything else that goes on. Half the time I'm not sure when enough is _enough. _

Zarbon? *Grins* oh yeah…forgot about him…I don't like him much. He has a purpose, though, so…*shrugs* he stays for a little bit longer. Explanations come over the next chapter mostly, and become more defined in the chapters that follow. 

Vegeta…I need to go back and do a little explanation…thanks to you, and a friend of mine (who wouldn't like me to say what her name is), I've decided I'm in desperate need of characterization for Vegeta-dear. *Cringes* that's really embarrassing; one of the things I'm supposed to notice and correct before posting…so, whenever I find time, I'll be adding details to the existing chapters, his state of mind/physical wellness, and possibly adding an interlude between Chapters one and two…I'd appreciate it if you'd tell me when more explanation is needed. *Smiles* I could always use feedback.

DbzShark: You're absolutely correct, by the way. Creating a good, realistic mental picture is the most important thing a writer should do. Interesting note: my editor, Meghan, says that grammar and basic fundamentals of writing are more important. "If you can't express your idea properly, no one will take you seriously." She says. Hah. Like we listen to our editors…*grins* actually, yes, I do…if you don't have one, FIND ONE. They're absolutely wonderfully blunt. 

Oooh, I did that all right? *Grins* describing stuff and creating pictures…that's nice to know. Sometimes I'm not so sure about the flow of the story…it gets messed up, in my mind. 

Hmm. *Looks up at review replies* boy, that took a lot of space…*sheepish* I think I've wasted enough of your time…

If you don't want me to reply, say so. I'll try to be brief, honestly…it's just that I talk a lot. Reviews, comments, critiques and rants are always welcome.


	5. Chapter 5

Warning: Violence. Angst. Confusion. OoC on Vegeta's part, and towards the end, Trunks. Angst. Foreshadowing. Pairings: Bulma/Zarbon, and Goku/Chi-chi. Neither of which are active romances. 

**Disclaimer: Dragon Ball Z isn't mine, nor is anything else remotely related to the said show. I'm making no money. Credit must go where it's due, namely to the creator of the show, producers, production people and such. On a more personal note, thanks and credit are due to Felix for allowing me to do this. Go read her story.**

Losing Innocence

            by Taes Willett

Chapter 5 

Sometimes when he looked up into the stars, Trunks could almost see what Whoever made the universe was thinking in creating life. Most other times it seemed like an awfully bad idea, really. Why form something that's just going to up and die? When life isn't stubbornly trying to resist the natural order of things, like dying, for instance, it was fighting. People especially . . . bloodthirsty things required war, and war required huge amounts of unnecessary death to be called successful. 

But looking up to the heavens, watching the pure starlight shine through deep, dreamy amethyst, so dark it was nearly black as raven's wing, he could see what They might've been thinking. 

There really _is something about life that's just completely thrilling. Unpredictable. The motives for living, for __thriving, could be lost and found again in an eye blink, but their grace-- even if emotional rather than physical --was always there. A plant, for instance, with its green wisps of incomprehensible exquisiteness, would stretch for the sun's light. It was something to marvel at, how something that didn't think in the same way people did could still find what it needed through instinct alone. That's what it had to do . . . or it would die. _

Trunks smiled vaguely, _back to that old subject again, hm? Well, I guess when you spend your entire life fighting for others to live it would__ show up often enough . . . he sighed. He'd come out here to be alone. And to digest his father's words, to be sure, but mostly to just get __away from that damned Zarbon . . . he snorted quietly, wondering what he thought he was pulling. __And he says Vegeta __has a pension for causing pain . . .well, at least his__ is the sort that goes away. He was willing to bet the 'mere' memory of what Zarbon had said would stay with Vegeta for a long, long time. _

Rolling over, Trunks left off his thoughts of the universe and the meaning behind it, listening with half an ear to the rolling of the waves. Tiny pink flowers grew among the blades of grass over in a little patch, not too far from where he lay. The small things were nothing out of the ordinary, just flowers of the common variety; they had petals like drawings from a kid's coloring book, and everything else about them were distinctly plain. To him, though, they seemed more beautiful than anything else. Except, maybe, for his mother's smile . . . 

_Oh, Kami . . . he said it was true. How could it be? In his heart, he knew he really meant 'no. Not __my Dad. It's somebody else's, but never mine; it couldn't be __my Dad, or it'd be true for me, too.' He sighed again, and stared into the midnight sky._

"Whatcha doing out here, all alone?" someone queried, interrupting his thoughts. "Not interested in the party?" That voice was low, gloriously smooth and soft as smoke in the morning sunrise. The voice held a tinge of shadows mystery and some of the flowers he'd been watching, filled with a peculiarly androgynous beauty.

Looking up in surprise, Trunks silently chastised himself for letting his guard down. He knew no one who spoke like _that . . . what his eyes confirmed shocked him even further. The speaker, with their melodious, quiet tone, was nothing short of stunning. They had an oddly genderless appearance as well, and the flowing robes reminded him of what angels were characteristically said to wear; some loose shift that concealed everything, designed to remove the smallest hint of sensuality. _

It was their face that drew his attention. Pale, with dark eyes like the sky above them, they brought new meaning to the word 'beautiful.' The fire in their features was capable of murder, should one look too long upon this magnificent creature. 

To top it all off, long, dark tresses fell in loose curls, a sort of wave that further added to the softness of the person. The hair framed that snowy skin, and the silken strands matched the deep black of the eyes. 

Somehow he managed to find the words he sought. "No, no that's not it . . . I just wanted . . ."

A smile, warm and understanding filled their features with an incomparable sense of wonder and love. "To be alone?" a child's smile could be no more innocent; an angel's grace could be no more flawless than this mystifying beauty.

Trunks echoed their smile, but it swiftly passed from his face. "I feel like I'm drowning." He shook his head slowly, and sighed. "Too much, too fast." Looking at the fiery being, he raised an eyebrow. "My name is Trunks, by the way." He paused. "And you are . . .?"

"A messenger," came the reply. "Simply a messenger."

Trunks frowned, not trusting that answer. The chick that trusted the fox, with its cunning stories and sly smile, was surely a fool . . . and a dead one at that. "A messenger of whose?"

"Not God's, if that's what you mean." Rich laughter filled the quiet ocean side, reminding Trunks of spring rain. Eyes that made the sky seem a pale imitation of something truly wonderful rolled heavenwards, faint amusement glimmering like sunlight on water beneath the façade. "I get that too much . . . this humble message boy is most certainly _not an angel of the Name." The perplexing young man winked. "I'm only mortal, after all . . ."  _

_'Message boy__' he said? Hmm. So perhaps my soul-nurturing stranger is male, Trunks thought, vaguely amused. "And your __name?" _

"Red."

Trunks raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. His name was hardly considered 'normal,' so who was he to pass judgment? With some effort, he drew his eyes from the exquisite apparition, looking again to the moonlit waters. "What do you want . . .?"

"As a messenger I bring messages." Smiling reassuringly, he walked forward, sitting gracelessly next to the sprawled half-Saiyajin. "You don't know how far I had to go to actually find you . . ." he grinned wryly, and Trunks was somewhat alarmed to see how easily they talked . . . almost as if _he were a long time friend of Trunks' . . . one whom he'd accidentally forgotten to forward his new address to, but had surely known all his life. "I must say, Trunks, you certainly get around." Again midnight eyes searched the heavens, but this time there was no mockery to be found._

Trunks echoed this stranger's emotions unintentionally, and looked to the sky once more. "Who is the message from?" he asked quietly. Suspense held his heart in place; squeezing the patience he might have received from his mind, demanding answer _now._

_Could this have anything to do with my father? _

Slowly he found himself looking into Red's eyes, where the universes he found were caught between despair and some unnamed force. Green, space was green, but looking into this man's eyes, he thought the cosmos another color . . . _Wait . . . universes? He wondered. "Kid, that part's not important. You __know who it's from, little one, you know it in your heart of hearts . . ." _

The half-Saiyajin frowned. This 'Red' character couldn't be much older than _he was, so why'd he have to go and call him 'kid,' of all things? His irritation faded fast when the man began to speak again. The sheer beauty of his words kept him enthralled, and his easy grace and __familiarity kept him a mystery._

"There will be time enough for messages, Trunks. I serve an organization higher than you'd think . . . but my Order is not known to you. As I've said, I bring news, but I also appoint roles, leading those who are destined to be led where they must go." A pause. "If you're not the one, then there will be another. That's the way of things . . ."

_This is getting a little too cryptic for me . . . "Destiny?" he wondered. "You say there are 'those who are destined' but if there's such thing as destiny, then why should time travel be possible? We can change our so-called Fates."_

Laughter sparkled across his face, dancing from eyes to mouth, flowing downward until his shoulders shook with it. "Kid, listen for a minute, there's nothing wrong with your ears. Destiny's _not set in stone! Whoever gave you that idea was either particularly dense, or misinformed. It's . . . well, it's like water." He hesitated, struggling for words. "Or maybe a river . . . fluent. Changing. It's always been that way; everything from the smallest of circumstances to the great events of your day influences it. There are __endless possibilities, and with every complication you add, even more outcomes are spit out." Chuckling to himself, he shook his head, looking with some affection to the surroundings. "I'd love to figure out the way it works, but I'm not entirely sure there's a particular way for even destiny to happen." A smile. "It all changes, you know._

"Without this flexibility, how could the world happen? What's the _point? If you're life is already figured out, from the moment you came screaming and kicking into the world to the time when you got bit by some fucking __mosquito and died, what'd be the point in living it? There'd be no surprises." Tossing a strand of dark curls over his shoulder, Red looked at Trunks, trying to make sure he followed._

"How would we even know, though? We could live out our lives thinking we were making our own choices, even if we weren't. How would we _know?" the moonlit night wasn't seeming nearly as interesting as it had before this __boy had shown up out of nowhere. He felt no need for worry, strangely enough; he knew Red wouldn't hurt him. Not if he had some message for him . . . __not unless that message is my death, he thought bleakly._

There was silence for a moment, strained and painful. "You'd know." Red murmured, looking away. "Believe me, you'd know." Both were silent for a while, watching where the stars and waters collected, observing the mystery that was life. Back and forth the wind would blow, creating ripples over chaotic oceans. A bird would call out, searching for food and complaining when it found none. The stars shone with their customary light, neither winking nor sparkling, just _there. The grass stirred, and somewhere above them, storm clouds gathered, dropping rain and thunder without their notice or consent. _

Lightening flashed and thunder rumbled. Somewhere ahead of them, the waves crashed, wind soared, and any birds that remained quickly made their way out of there until only the two of them, one half alien, and one being unknown to anyone, remained above water. 

"One," Red murmured. He looked up into the rain, and closed his eyes. Letting the water, so clear and pure, fall down his cheeks, he smiled. It fell like tears down his face, but the smile bespoke that image, and the drops dripped from high cheekbones to the base of his head, clumping his hair into thick ringlets. His white shift was soaked through, clinging to his slender body, and mud colored the hems of the sleeves. His shoes were similarly covered in dirt, but none of this took away from his loveliness. 

"That's all anyone gets, Trunks. Whether they're human, Saiyajin, an apple tree or a universe, that's _all we get. One lifetime. No matter how long, you only live your life once." He didn't seem at all discouraged by this; rather he seemed to delight in it, savoring the words as he savored the rain. "Death defines life. And besides, it wouldn't be the same, if you lived your life twice . . . it'd be too weird."_

Trunks laughed softly, a quiet noise bringing to mind the softer sort of wind, the kind that ruffled your hair and you wouldn't mind if it did, but would simply smile, and watch the sky. It was a nice sound. "You can say that again," he shook his head in slight confusion and pondered his words. "I don't really get that, though. How can everything be equal? We live at different times, die after different amounts of it  . . ." 

Regarding him with new interest, Red looked up, and stood just as gracelessly as he'd sat. That seemed almost an insult to his beauty, but the dark haired man didn't seem to give one wit about fairness, or proportions of elegance in features to elegance in how he chose to move. "Doesn't mater, kid. You'll get it eventually. Anyway, you've got a lot of work cut out for you, kiddo. None of it'll be easy, but I think you of all people would be able to do it." Grinning, he offered a dripping hand to Trunks, who took it with some unease. Nothing became of it, though, and still Red smiled. "I've gotta get goin' . . . say hi to Vegeta and Goku for me, hmm? Thanks, I appreciate it . . . catch ya later, Trunks . . ." and with that, he disappeared as mysteriously as he'd come, leaving only the smoky memory of his voice, and the glowing remembrance of the message he never told.

*****

Bulma fumed silently, holding Keichii somewhat possessively. For some reason, Zarbon was being an ass. First he blew up at Vegeta, and then he continued to further ruin her plans by refusing to apologize to the rest of the Z-Fighters-- excluding Goku, who didn't know what was going on --even though she pleaded and threatened him to do so. No one was having a good time, least of all _Goku. Keichii woke up shortly after the arguments began, screaming for all he was worth. __That's. IT! I'm not tolerating any__ more of this bullshit! _

"**_Shut UP!" she screamed. Glaring furiously, Bulma shook with rage. "WHAT IN ALL THE HELLS DO YOU THINK YOU'RE TRYING TO DO?!?! This is GOKU'S party, and you're NOT GOING TO RUIN IT!!! AND IF ANYONE DOESN'T LIKE IT, THEY'RE GOING TO HAVE TO DEAL WITH _****ME." **

Silence.

"That's what I thought. Now. All of you, back to the living room, and leave all this for tomorrow, okay? Right." She smiled sweetly. "Zarbon, **_honey, would you kindly take Keichii? Thanks." Rounding on Goku, who seemed more than a little intimidated, she gave her cheeriest grin. "Happy birthday, Goku-sweetie! I'm sorry these __men ruined the surprise bit, but we've got everything else sorted out! Just you wait, we've got a super night ahead of us!"_**

Goku, looking increasingly nervous, shook his head empathetically, raising his hands as if to protect himself. "Na, that's alright! You guys didn't have to do this-- it was real nice of you all, but I'd better get Vegeta to calm down and sort things out--" 

Bulma stopped. Turned around with murder in her eyes. "Just you leave that to Zarbon, Goku. He'll **_apologize to your friend and everything will be loads better! He'll _****_even bring Vegeta back here so you don't have to worry about him," __and so I can see whether or not he follows my orders, she added silently. "It'll be just __peachy. Right, honey?"_**

"…" Zarbon wordlessly handed Keichii back to Bulma, and headed for the door, nodding. Goku grinned, relieved. 

"Thanks, Zarbon! I owe ya one!" he called after him, and grinned to the rest of his friends. Looking around briefly, he noticed one of the androids in the corner, emotionless as always. "Hey, look! Sixteen showed up, too! All _right!" nevertheless, he couldn't help but glance towards the door, worry creasing his brow. _

_Well, if Bulma says Zarbon's gonna take care of it, he definitely will . . . _

Despite that, the image of Vegeta tearing out of the room, grief hidden by a mask of anger so terrible it hurt to look at . . . that picture kept returning to his mind, in spite of his best efforts. Goku sighed, easily deciding whatever Vegeta and Zarbon had been arguing about was best left between them. He certainly wasn't going to touch it!

The party continued onward, everyone talking and laughing. An hour later, the screen door opened once more, and Trunks reentered, befuddlement showing clearly on his face. The purple haired teenager waved to Goku, and smiled genuinely, but there was something unnamed behind it. Even if he hadn't seen the boy's face when he'd entered, Goku would have known something was bothering him. Trunks simply radiated imbalance, most probably because his chi was completely out of sync with his mind. His emotions were practically rolling over his face, disbelief, anger and grief mingling into some shield he couldn't begin to decipher.

"Hey, Trunks! Look who's here! Seventeen an' Eighteen! Both of 'em! Can you believe it?"

Seventeen half smiled, exchanging glances with his twin. The ironic gaze that passed between them could only be described as annoyed. "We came to wish you a happy birthday, Goku. Originally to yell SURPRISE! But poor Vegeta and Zarbon-the-gods-be-damned-fucking-whore-son made sure we wouldn't get to do that." Ignoring Bulma's glare, he shrugged. "Wait 'till you see the cake . . ."

"Surprise, by the way," Eighteen offered. "And happy birthday." Sixteen simply nodded in agreement.

Goku laughed cheerfully, grinning at the androids. "All you guys did this for me?" he looked honestly surprised, scanning the faces of his friends with an immeasurable glow that could only be called love. "Wow."

Gohan grinned up at his dad, happy with the reaction. "It was fun! And everybody helped out, even the and--um, even Seventeen and Eighteen!" Goku laughed again, picking up Gohan, pressing his son into a friendly hug. 

"This is great! …Someone mentioned cake . . . is there more food?" Goku asked hopefully. Krillin rolled his eyes, and showed him to the kitchen.

*****

Some time later, as the sun slowly began to rise, the party ended. As promised, Zarbon had attempted to bring Vegeta back to the party, but the stubborn Saiyajin prince would hear none of it. Offering apologies to Goku instead, Zarbon returned three hours after his abrupt departure, and rejoined Bulma. She, for her part, wouldn't talk to him until they had to go home. Other than that, everything went more or less according to plan.

Catching Goku's arm, Trunks offered a smile to the taller man. "Hey, Goku? Listen, something's come up . . . I think I'm gonna return home for a while. I'm sorry 'bout Vegeta an' all, and I hope you two can get Zarbon to hold his tongue. Vegeta didn't do anything; he's just angry. If you talked to him, maybe . . .?" he let the question hang. The weak smile faded a little, and Trunks ran a hand through violet hair, nervous. "I'll be back when thing are less of a mess."

Goku, looking alarmed, caught Trunks' arm as he turned to go. "Does this have anything to do with their argument?"

Surprise flared briefly across the teen's face, and then a smile broke through. "No, it doesn't. It's just . . . well, if . . . it's kinda personal. And _really hard to explain."_

"If you think that's what's best for you, all right," Goku looked a little reluctant. After everything that'd happened, it was kinda nice to have Trunks there, a quiet figure in the shadows that brought peace even to Vegeta's troubled mind. Thinking that had to do with Trunks' lineage rather than pure character, Goku had to smile. _Leave it to Vegeta's kid to do what no one else can . . . "But if there's anything I can do, or anything __we can do, don't hesitate to ask. Okay?"_

Trunks smiled. "Okay." Turning around again, Trunks walked forward a few steps, and half turned back, giving a small wave. "Take care of yourself, Goku! And maybe Vegeta, too . . . I'll be seein' ya!" With that, he disappeared.

*****

Around midday, Goku managed to tease, threaten and plead Vegeta into accompany him on another outing, this time taking him to an amusement park. At first the shorter Saiyajin refused to set foot in the place, but eventually he managed to convince him otherwise. Goku bought ice cream and cotton candy, even getting the stubborn man to accompany him on some of the more interesting rides. 

Just as they got off the "funny boat that didn't sail on anything or go anywhere," as Goku called it, the two of them nearly ran over an equally surprised Trunks. The more relaxed two of the party both yelped in shock, where the final member nearly crushed Trunks' throat before Goku intervened.

"Trunks! How're you, little guy? You feelin' okay?" the-now-officially-one-year-and-a-really-long-half-day older man asked. 

Trunks, still trying to catch his breathe, held up one hand, signaling them to wait a moment. Vegeta growled an apology. "Sorry, kid,"

Shaking his head, Trunks smiled slightly. "No problem," he muttered. "Vegeta, I thought you said you _weren't training!"_

His father shrugged. "I'm not. Kakarott is simply dragging me half across the planet every other day or so, and limiting the amount of alcohol I take in." the latter bit of the statement carried more than a little annoyance. 

Trunks laughed. "It's good to hear you guys . . . but, no, I haven't solved my problem." He sighed. "I'm still just as confused as I was to begin with."

Goku looked at Trunks funny, befuddlement showing clearly on his expressive features. "Y'know, sometimes it takes more than a few hours to get _that sorta problem sorted out." He offered off hand. _

Blinking, the lavender haired boy looked from one Saiyajin to another in apparent confusion. "I was gone a few weeks," he countered. Shrugging, he brushed it off. "Guess that's the thing about time travel . . . I could be gone any number of years and still return to the same day I left!" he grinned in amusement, thinking the probability of staying gone from such wonderful friends more than a few months impossible. They kinda grew on you. "You know what? I'm not actually sure what my problem _is."_

Laughing good naturedly, Goku clasped his shoulder, grinning in amusement. "That's definitely gonna make it a _lot harder to solve! What can we do for ya?"_

Grinning mischievously, Trunks put an arm around Vegeta's shoulders. "If you would, Goku, can we go someplace _quiet? Someplace where there's lots of trees . . . maybe some climbing . . . either that or New York." He shrugged. __One or the other will do nicely. _

"What do you think, Vegeta? Mountains or cities?"

Vegeta glowered. "I. Don't. Care."

Goku poked him in the ribs, grinning widely. "Come ON, Vegeta! Do you wanna go hike, or do you wanna go see the good ol' U.S.A.?? It's not _that hard!"_

"…mountains…" Vegeta growled. "Less annoying people like—"he stopped. Within the space of seconds, the three of them had been dragged to some remote forest in god-only-knows-where. "…you…" he finished lamely. Goku only laughed.

*****

Leaving their heavier belongings where they'd first emerged, the three preceded to hike the most grueling way possible; with**out their abilities. Trunks flat out ordered them not to fly, use chi energy, instant transmission and what not unless they were in danger of dying. Goku exchanged amused glances with Vegeta, wondering what made the boy want to make all this more challenging for them. **

_Maybe he needs to get his mind off things, Goku mused._

Trees as old as the rocks they grew in stretched around them, their huge trunks withered by the mountain winds and ravaged by time. Beautiful in the way only the wild can be, the sky radiated purpose over this mountainside, all clouds giving way to the lower portions and gathering majestically at the peak. Droplets of dew pooled on the evergreen needles, crystalline in the afternoon sun. It was another world they traveled in, high above the clouds. Mischief clung to the air like fog, causing even Vegeta to give in a little and have fun, dropping out of sight for just long enough to create some sort of trap ahead of them. It was harmless, but frankly amusing. 

Hours passed, and they found themselves wandering the trails at dusk. Unwilling to risk even the smallest accident in the near dark, the trio unanimously decided to turn back. Jokingly acting as if he would punch the other two, Goku grabbed hold of their shirts, transporting them back to their belongings. They found two things there that surprised them to the extreme.

The first was that their possessions had been moved; strewn about the forest floor like so much junk. The second was the person who'd done such; a small, scrawny kid of near ten years. His wild hair wasn't quite so extreme as any self respecting Saiyajin, but for an earth child it was nothing short of unbelievable. His clothes were dirty, torn in some places, and well used all around. All in all, it looked as if the child had seen better days.

"…what are you doing?" Vegeta asked, deadly calm. Dark eyes flashed ominously, betraying his thoughts. 

"Hey! What'd you do to our stuff?" Goku asked, mildly dismayed. "Did you lose something?" he asked, ever courteous. 

"…" said the kid. He dropped what he'd been holding, and ran as fast as his legs would carry him. Unfortunately, the twilight was as much of a danger as they'd supposed, and an invisible root caught the child's foot, tossing him a good five feet forward-- and into the canyon. 

While all three made a move to help the boy, Goku managed to reach him fastest, teleporting into the air, catching hold of him easily. The kid, for his part, clung to Goku like the small child he was, terrified. The wind around them stirred restlessly, and far below, the river moaned within its confines, regretting the loss of such a worthy sacrifice. Murmuring soft words of assurance, Goku stroked his hair with one hand, keeping a tight grip on him with the other. "Shh, it's okay, it's okay . . . you're alright, kiddo. Nothing's going to happen to you."

Wide eyed, the boy looked up fearfully into Goku's smiling eyes, relaxing only the tiniest bit. "How'd you . . . do . . . that?"

Goku laughed softly, smiling regretfully, shaking his head. "I teleported. Same way we got here, little guy. Listen, you okay?" The boy nodded, still frightened.

"Brattling, what were you trying to do?"

"Vegeta…" Goku cautioned, frowning above the boy's head. "This is _not the time. Okay, kiddo, where're you parents?"_

"…gone…" 

 "I see. So where do you live?"

 "Here."

 "Stealing unsuspecting travelers' things?" Vegeta growled. The boy gulped.

 "Vegeta!" 

The eldest Saiyajin snorted disdainfully, heading back towards their things. "I was merely asking."

"So you're an orphan, huh?" Trunks asked quietly. The kid lifted his chin defiantly, determination shining in his brown eyes. "You wanna home?"

Snorting, the kid looked Trunks over in much the same way Vegeta had. "I'm not gonna live **_anywhere with you three freaks!" he scoffed. "I'd rather starve! You'd probably murder me while I was sleeping and eat my brains for breakfast."_**

Goku laughed, and Trunks barely contained a smile. "Uh, do you _really think we'd do that? Come on kid! Goku here just saved you, and Vegeta's definitely more bark than bite!" Vegeta growled threateningly, but didn't move. _

The kid gulped. 

"What's your name, kiddo?" Goku asked softly. "I'm Goku, and that young man you see over there is Trunks." He smiled cheerfully. "And as you may've guessed, that brooding, glowering guy over there is Vegeta. He's the grumpy one." 

"Brian." He replied, giggling at Goku's antics. Whether or not these strange people would eat his brains was hard to say, but this guy, at least, he wouldn't mind staying with. "Uh, Goku," he paused. "You can let me go now." He struggled against the older man's arms, trying unsuccessfully to break his embrace. Frowning, he tried a technique that _normally worked on other people-- Goku seemed to be exempt from all things normal, though, and retained his hold on him._

"Nah. I think you're fine here, for now . . ."

"Hey, Brian." Trunks grinned. "Since I've no place to stay, and Goku already _has a family, why don't you go with Vegeta? I'm sure it'd be good for you both." His grin widened a little, a perfectly innocent expression upon his face. "Maybe you could teach Vegeta some manners . . ." he laughed quietly, dodging the rock Vegeta tossed at him. "Seriously, though. Vegeta would be a good dad." Looking a bit wistful, Trunks glanced at Goku for approval. Goku smiled cheerily, giving the half-Saiyajin thumbs up._

Unfortunately, the other Saiyajin had his own ideas. "Absolutely NOT! I refuse to let this **BRAT stay with me!"**

"Okay, Vegeta . . ." Trunks sighed. "I guess we could let _Zarbon take care of him. I'm sure he could do it, even if you're not brave enough  . . ." _

Vegeta glowered. "No. That's _not going to work on me."_

"Come on! You're a Saiyajin. How hard could it be?" Goku teased.

"VERY! I'm not goin' anywhere! This guy's **nuts! He's the most likely of all of you crazy people to eat my brains!!!!!" **

Vegeta snorted. "Why would I eat _your brains? I would only eat an intelligent person's thought matter. Certainly not **yours."**_

"AAAAAAAAAH!!!! I'M A GONNER FOR SURE!" He squirmed frantically. "LEMME GO, LEMME GOOOO!"

"Kid. I'm not going to kill you."

"And you're not going to drink around him, either." Goku added sternly. "Not a _drop, Vegeta, and I MEAN it!"_

"You're going to get a job, too. Then you'll get a house, or an apartment, and you'll do what's good for Brian." Trunks piped up. _And if you so much as bruise him, your ass is mine, Father or not. The unheard statement was clear enough._

"Unless, that is, you're not strong enough to handle the kid . . .?" Goku added softly.

 "For gods' sake! I'll take the damn kid!"

"AND you won't drink."

Vegeta growled.

"You're sticking me with an ALCOHOLIC? You're nuts! I won't stay there for a day! A second! Goku! Don't make me go with him!"

"Brian. I will neither harm you, nor leave you to fend for yourself. You're going to be my student, and you're going to be taught _properly. You most certainly are going to learn something, Brian, and you're going to be safe. Fed. OUT of these gods-be-damned woods."_

"Um, Vegeta? How about we get you settled in first, and _then take him!"_

"Oh, great. I'm stuck with _him for the rest of eternity!"_

And that was the end of the matter.

*****

For all of two weeks Brian stayed with Goku, while Trunks readied things with Vegeta, getting together an apartment, and helping Vegeta with his job-hunt. Every now and again, the two of them came back to the Son's house to make themselves useful to the other Saiyajin and help everyone adjust to a young, rebellious kid invading the house. Chi-chi doted on him sometimes, and pestered him continuously to be more like Gohan-- which is to say, studying more and learning to be a good student. It was strongly believed by Vegeta and Trunks that Chi-chi herself, while seeking to make him more comfortable, led Brian to finally agree to living with Vegeta. 

Sometimes, when he wasn't busy helping either his father or the only other full-blooded Saiyajin around, Trunks sprawled lazily wherever he found a patch of open sky. Some days the sky was clear, others it was overcast and shadowy, reminding him oddly of the home he'd left behind. Sometimes, his mother's words would come back to him in the middle of another duty, telling him not to visit the 'false past' or travel needlessly where he could screw up the entire scheme of things. There was hardly a spare moment where he could simply sit and think, for all his time organizing. Those rare hours he spent gazing up at the heavens were remembered for long periods afterwards, silent and sweet as only memory could be. 

After Brian was resituated his troubles didn't end. Red _said he had a lot of work cut out for him, but by Kami, he didn't think fixing Vegeta would be all __that hard. With his friends, he'd saved the world within the space of a day, and __without this much effort, strain or talking. He'd been tired physically, but not so much mentally…prior to this, he had been quite sound psychologically. Running a hand through his hair, he pondered that, vaguely wondering if this is what his mother went through while trying to invent some sort of gadget to help them save the world. Smiling at a memory, he collapsed against the old tree behind him, and stared up into its branches, peering sometimes at the cool sky behind it._

 "Boo." Said a voice.

Trunks blinked, and started in surprise; out of nowhere, Red suddenly appeared, hanging from the branches of his tree. With one fluent motion, he landed next to the startled half-Saiyajin, smiling cheerfully as ever. "Hello, Trunks. Hope you've been well?"

 "Uh."

 "I'm sorry we don't have as much time to chat this time around, but time, unfortunately is running short for all of us. Trunks, sweetie, I know I wasn't too clear the first time, but this is _not what I meant when I said you had a job to do . . . I'm sure it's important for you for to have your dad healthy again, but there are more noteworthy matters to attend to." Putting one hand on Trunks' shoulders, the dark haired beauty smiled reassuringly. The loose shift had been replaced with tight fitting black clothing, clearly designed for easy movement and silent approach, rather like the stereotyped spy outfit, actually, there wasn't a bare inch of skin showing aside from his face. Nevertheless, the man was just as alluring as before._

 "Red, I don't get it. What do you want me to do??" Exasperation filled his voice, tired eyes glowing with some sort of hope that perhaps this mysterious stranger would reveal everything this time. 

Perhaps. 

Above him, the tree swayed and rustled, and before him the quiet vision smiled painfully. This, it seemed, was harder for him to say than anything else. "You know what you have to do, Trunks. You've known all along . . ." he paused, repressing a sigh. "Listen to what your mother's told you, and you'll do fine . . . Trunks? No matter what, don't despair. Please . . . it'll make it easier if you don't."

Somewhere in the clear blue sky, a falcon called. The wind stirred above the grass, trailing leaves and other debris from all over. Silence fell over the two for a moment, neither speaking nor listening, and both of them gazed at the world around them. The heavens spoke of rain, nature spreading her clouds over where there had only been sunshine, suiting Trunks' feelings perfectly. 

_Sometimes you lose . . . and sometimes you just give up. _

Meeting the dark eyed man's gaze with horror, Trunks sprang to his feet so fast he could smell the grass burning . . . the surrounding landscape lost its beauty, bearing only dread in its warm embrace. "No . . . _no, I won't!" he screamed, pain coloring his voice as it never had. Not even when the others died, he hadn't shouted like this. The transition from peaceful to angry was almost nonexistent, and so fast it made his head hurt. "You don't understand, Red, I __can't! __I just . . . can't  . . . and I won't . . . Red . . . I'm sorry, but __I can't do it. That's not who I am . . . it's goes against everything__ . . . I was __raised to protect this!"_

Red smiled, a sad little thing that could only be described as patient . . . perhaps a little remorseful, but patient, all the same. "It's all right, Trunks. Everything's going to be just fine . . ." if he said anything else, it was lost on him, for as soon as he gathered his wits, the young half-Saiyajin flew out of there as fast as he could, but those words echoed behind him . . . _It's not okay, and it won't __be . . . oh godohgodohgodohgod… I can't do __this! I can't..._

Time was a funny thing, during his flight. Due largely to the rain, he could hardly see in front of him, much less estimate the time of day . . . however long he lingered, he couldn't get those words out of his head. Red, his request . . . the mission he charged him with, all without _truly saying a word. He'd driven himself in and out of the same circle over and over again, hardly noticing the trend in his thought pattern. _

He didn't know where he was flying, but when he found himself standing in front of Goku's door, drenched, heart sick and sore, he knew immediately what he had to do. But…it was too difficult, and it was too much to expect.

Standing rock still for what could've been hours, Trunks stared blankly at the door that could lead to his only remaining hope for help . . . Slowly, so very slowly, he slumped against its frame, his head thumping loudly as he stared up at the gray sky.

Zarbon answered the door, calling over his shoulder to Bulma as he did so. He blinked in surprise at the sight of Trunks falling backwards, his support taken away. Noting his bedraggled appearance with the ease of someone trained to do so, Zarbon barely contained his immediate worry, trying not to frighten the boy. "You didn't have to knock, kid . . . you know you're welcome here," the man chided, trying to keep his tone light-hearted. 

Chi-chi, catching sight of her almost-son sprawled half in the doorway from her spot in the kitchen squeaked in surprise. "Trunks! Why the hell are you standing out in the rain? Get in here! You and Goku . . . no common sense . . . come on in, sweetie, or you'll catch a cold . . ."

Dazed, Trunks looked from the green skinned man to Goku's wife, blinking slowly in the light. "I'm sorry . . ."he shuddered, pulling his arms around himself. "I . . . I'm just . . . so sorry . . ."

Chi-chi blinked in confusion, brows knitting in vague concern. "Trunks, don't worry, it's not like you're late for anything important. They're just organizing a sparring competition! It's nothing to stress over . . ." Trunks shook his head, closing his eyes. Lurching to his feet, he swayed unsteadily, as if he'd lost his balance, leaning heavily on the frame for support. "Trunks, are you all right? Why don't we get you some hot coco? Come on, sweetie . . . it's all right!" she nudged Zarbon, gesturing for him to get the others.

 "It's just that . . . I can't . . . but he said . . . oh, Kami . . . I _can't! I won't . . . please, I'm sorry . . . just don't make me do it!" His eyes were open, but he didn't see . . . the waters of destiny, as Red had so kindly referred to them, were washing over him, into his mouth and eyes, trying to block out his sense of self. Drowning . . . __'I feel like I'm drowning; too much too fast . . .' oh, Kami . . . 'Simply a messenger.' Over and over, his conversations with the dark, mysterious Red floated in and out of his consciousness, so very like the waters of destiny.__ But there were others here . . . who were they?_

Chi-chi snapped into attention. "Gohan! Get me some blankets, lots of them . . ." Running a list of symptoms through her head, she quickly assigned jobs for the closest people. "Goku, I need you to find something _dry that'll fit Trunks! I don't care what it is, just get it!" Turning frantically to the remaining people, she issued orders faster than she'd thought possible. "Bulma, can I get you to get some medicines from your supply? Vegeta, you and Zarbon get everything off the couch, Trunks is going to need some place warm . . . he's delirious. Brian, can you get some of that soup from the fridge? Just warm it up. Don't __boil it, though! And definitely don't burn it. All right, Vegeta, get over here and get Trunks settled-- I've got to make tea . . ." the immediate remedies set into action, she hurried to the kitchen._

Minutes later, everyone returned, tasks completed. "What's wrong?" Brian asked quietly, wondering at the strange occurrences. Trunks stared blankly at the ceiling, clad in an old white shirt too small for Goku, but too large for his son, and similar pants that had to be rolled up and tied around his waist. Both were too large for the pale boy, but they were dry . . .

 "Mom? Mom, tell him I can't do it . . . _I'm not strong enough! Please, mom? I . . . I'm scared . . . I can't . . ." after all that silence, his anguished pleas for an absent mother cut at the heart. Something was wrong here, and there wasn't much they could do about any of it . . ._

Bulma worriedly paced between rooms, not bothering to hide her concern for the kid anymore than the others. She ran a hand through her hair, trying to think of what could possibly have gone wrong. Nothing happened here, right? No one was dead, or hurt . . . there wasn't a thing that could've spurned something like _this into action. But that was beside the point; Trunks was here, and he was hurting beyond imagination. _

_Oh, Trunks…what did you see? She sighed. __And why can't you tell us__? We'll help you Trunks. I know we can…_

In the other room, Trunks' voice rose with rage and some despair, rising above the dead silence like a god descending in ancient fury, bespeaking vengeance with an iron will. "RED, YOU ASSHOLE! How can you order me to fucking _KILL everything I ever loved?" Without a moment to lose, the kid was on his feet, sparking with the self-same anger Vegeta was well known for, his chi gaining power with every passing second, the air about him stirring and sparking without halt. _

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, Trunks felt his hair pick up in the breeze, the beginnings of his Super Saiyajin form taking hold in his head. He barely paid attention to those thoughts, letting his body take care of the physical while he fumed inside and out. 

Trunks' expression, like Vegeta's when he was so inclined, was impossible to look at, yet similarly unable to break. His gaze was murderous, filled with hate and long-suffering. His face seemed twisted in an awful parody of his usual expression, that soft, understanding look, and his stance, though right for combat, was rigid with suppressed emotion. 

All around him, the remaining fighters gathered close, working as a team in this one instance that the boy had little chance to remain as he was. Soothing words came from the more emotionally active members of the group, but restraining hands fueled his temper all the more. He fought against them, but even as strong as he was, there was little one could do against so many.

Finally, the mask dropped, and the latent energy returned to its previous forms. Trunks felt his eyes droop, his face go lax. The boy's feet gave out from under him, and Vegeta was there to catch him when he finally did fall. After the initial burst his hatred ebbed, his sorrow returned.

The assembled Z-fighters exchanged worried glances, and retreated. What more could they do?

Slowly, Chi-chi and Bulma managed to work together well enough to get the boy to drink some tea, easing the herbal liquid down his throat as gently as they could manage. Bulma kept her mind clear, focusing on the task at hand rather than what events had led up to it, and tried to keep from crying. Spoon-feeding soup, she found, was much harder. This was due mostly to the noodles and pieces of chicken, which they eventually discarded. Moist cloths were placed on his forehead, and for lack of anything else to do, she combed his hair out, murmuring reassurances. Slowly his fever was brought down, and for the most part they relaxed. 

After a while, the older of the two Saiyajin gathered enough courage to make his way over. A few weeks ago, this would have been unheard of, but spending time with Brian seemed to change him in more ways than one. "Trunks, you okay, kid?" Vegeta asked softly, gently wiping the half-Saiyajin's forehead with yet another piece of cloth. "Can you tell me what's wrong?" 

Turning to look at his father-that-was-not, Trunks regarded him wistfully. "I can't." Whenever the girls had asked this same question, Trunks had not responded, staring off into space with the same expression as before. 

 "Why's that, Trunks? Do you know why you're sick?"

 "Sick?"

"Yes, Trunks . . . you've been here for over an hour. Bulma and Chi-chi brought your fever down, but kid? You're delirious."

Laughing quietly, Trunks closed his eyes. "I suppose I would be."

 "What happened?" 

Trunks snorted. "I hear what I would not have heard, and I'm knowing what I'd rather not know, Vegeta . . . it hurts . . . but you know what?" he frowned, reaching out to touch the air. "I can see things I never saw before . . ."

 "Did you go back to the future, kid?" A thousand scenarios played in his mind, thoughts of death and destruction filling every one of them. The boy returning to a world of desolation without hope, finding while he was away everything had been destroyed. Everything. Trunks' machine malfunctioning, sending him into a place where even one of the Z-Fighters would seem weak in comparison…unable to return until now. 

His mother telling him he had to return home, and destroy the time machine forever. Finding that one of them would become the evil that would ultimately destroy the worlds, and this little kid, Trunks, would be the one who had to kill them.

Silence.

"_What did you see?"_

Sensing that the boy wasn't going to reply, the black-haired Saiyajin sighed. "You're going to be all right, Trunks . . . you're going to be fine, okay?" Alarmed, Vegeta stood slowly, trying not to further upset the distraught patient. Walking over to Chi-chi, he folded his arms and shook his head. "Still delirious," he murmured.

Zarbon sighed, looking from Vegeta to the half-Saiyajin. "Guess not even mighty Vegeta could do anything about this one," he murmured, for once too tired and scared to even smirk. Vegeta said nothing. "It seems to me the poor kid's lost it. Snapped . . ."

Wondering what could have done this to the kid, Zarbon swallowed nervously, hoping beyond hope it wouldn't touch him and his…family. Of late, though, Bulma had little to do with him, keeping their son away from him and spending more and more time with this damned disgrace, the 'Saiyajin prince.' _Therapy indeed. _

Despite that, he couldn't help but worry about their future, particularly Keichii's. 

 "Don't even say that, you SON OF A BITCH!" 

…that had to be Vegeta. "Old rivalries . . ." Trunks sighed. "Seems like they never die, doesn't it?"

Zarbon merely shook his head. Goku, on the other hand, moved forward to help the boy. He, too, wondered what had happened to the boy, but unlike the others, his concern was more immediate; like what he could do for the kid to help him feel a little better. With one hand he brushed back Trunks' hair, and with the other he pulled the covers up around the half-Saiyajin, finally, the taller man tucked a small stuffed bear next to him. "You okay there, Trunks?"

Trunks rolled his eyes.

 "Thought not." Smiling slightly, he moved the teddy bear closer to his head. "See that? This was Gohan's, from when he was little . . . though I think he'd probably kill me under normal circumstances for telling you that. But I figured maybe you needed some silent company." He paused. "Wanna tell me what's bugging you, little guy? It could make you feel better,"

 "Goku?" 

 "Yeah?"

 "Why me?"

 "Uh, can't answer that one." He brightened. "Try another, though. I'll bet I can answer _one of 'em."_

Quiet laughter. "All right, Goku. I'll tell you . . ." pausing a moment to gather his thoughts, Trunks thought a bit for what the best way to phrase this might be. "He wants me to . . . well, he wants me to do something I can't do. I'm afraid I have to though, an' I don't know . . . I can't . . . it's not like I want everyone else to live with that, 'cause I don't think they'd be able to . . ."

 "Who is he, and what's he want you to do, kiddo?"

 "Red." He shook his head. "I have to, but I _can't!"_

 "Why not, Trunks? Ever ask yourself that? Maybe you're not supposed to,"

 "I am, though. And I can't because . . . it'd hurt . . . too much."

 "Is it important?"

 "Yes."

 "Would anyone die if you don't?"

 "Yes. But…"

 "Then _not doing something 'cause you're scared of the consequences would be stupid, Trunks. And not very nice, either, especially if others had to suffer for it." _

He should have expected nothing less from the honorable warrior. Goku, the protector of earth . . . he would say something like that. 

 "If it's your duty, and if it's _right, then you should. But if it's wrong? Then don't, Trunks. You're making it too complicated . . ."_

Slowly sitting up, Trunks regarded Goku with resignation. Finally, he hugged the taller Saiyajin, forcing him to either sit in order to comfortably return the gesture, or get something of a muscle strain. Taking the boy in his arms, Goku held him as he would have held his own son, and as he'd held Brian, stroking his hair and gently murmuring words of comfort. The tears were silent, but they were there, and Goku's heart ached for his almost-son's sadness. 

 "It's all right, Trunks . . .it's okay. Everything's going to turn out fine, you'll see . . ."

Finally he slept.

*****

Rising with the dawn, Trunks looked around briefly, pain sealing his heart. His father and Goku slumped against one another on the floor, obviously beaten from the night's adventure. Kneeling before them, he brushed his lips against his father's forehead, gently hugging both fighters. "I love you," he whispered. 

Finally he turned away, wishing he had time enough to bid farewell to his friends, but knowing that he couldn't. Circumstances wouldn't allow, and if he waited too long . . . well, he didn't want to find out what would happen if he waited too long. Stepping towards the door, he blinked a moment, and turned back. The teddy bear lay forgotten on the couch, its face buried amidst too many covers. With a sigh, he took the blankets from his makeshift bed, and wrapped them tightly around the slumbering Saiyajin, tucking the bear under an arm. 

With those final tasks done, he held the bear to his chest, and walked quietly out the door, murmuring a quiet thank you beside a voiceless plea for forgiveness. He knew neither the first nor the second would echo in their minds, for none would bear witness to them. So it should be. So it was.

The door opened without a sound, despite the old hinges in need of grease, and his footsteps made no noise. He could fly, true, but that would seem . . . unfair . . . he would fly soon enough. No need to rush things.

 "I'm sorry, everyone . . . but I have to . . . please forgive me." Only the trees heard him.

He walked aimlessly for a while, until he found himself where he Knew he would; the sea below him crashed endlessly on the rocky terrace, reminding him of a friend he'd once known . . . alas, there was no time for memories. Not a single one. 

Forcing him to concentrate, the half-Saiyajin took a final look at the world through his mind's eye, traveling across it in mere seconds without having to move a single step. Just as he'd told Vegeta, he could see things, now . . . the raw energy that made up the planet, the energy of the stars, the life. Almost lazily, his spirit dove into the earth, sinking slowly, in his point of view, towards the center of all this planet's existence. 

*****

Slowly coming back to consciousness, Goku opened his eyes. Instead of the familiar ceiling he was accustomed to, he saw a wall, and instead of lying down, he was cramped in an unusual sitting position against . . . Vegeta? He blinked, and stood. _Trunks, he thought, worried. The boy was gone; no trace of him was left in the house. The blankets the boy had been using were wrapped around Vegeta and himself . . . he frowned. But the teddy bear was gone? __Where's Trunks? _

Reaching out with his chi, he searched for the absent boy, drawing Vegeta into awareness. Sensing what the other Saiyajin planned, Vegeta took the opposite direction, spiraling around the other's chi sense with precise skill. Though Goku may have been stronger, and may have known the technique longer, Vegeta was more practiced in manipulating his chi in other ways, if only by years alone.

Exchanging worried glances, the two wordlessly stood. Trunks couldn't be found. "Hey, guys?" Goku called loudly. "Trunks is _gone, so we're gonna go look for him. I think it'd be a good idea for everyone to get up and come with us, at least for a little bit! So, uh, can I get anyone to __come on and wake __up already?"_

 "**We're leaving. If anyone wishes to join us in finding Trunks, WAKE UP now."**

Goku winced. "That'll work." Anyone who had not been woken by Goku's calling was definitely awake now. 

A scant few minutes after they were out the door, the remaining fighters joined them, and Chi-chi and Bulma's voices were heard. "We're coming too!" 

_If it comes to it, Goku thought privately, __I could always take them home._

With Brian, Bulma and Chi-chi covering the ground, and the remaining people flying, they covered the distance quickly enough, setting out in different directions to eliminate possibilities. In the end, all their paths led to one, and that led to a rocky overhang not far from the Son's home . . . and on that overhang stood Trunks; a silent but determined figure, dressed in ill-fitting white clothing, rocking back against the wind as if it could break him.

 "Trunks!" Vegeta shouted, straining to be heard over the gusts. "_What are you doing?"_

 "You're sick! What do you think you're doing, wandering around after last night?" Chi-chi demanded. Her shrill voice did not carry far enough, though, and Trunks would not answer even if it did.

 "Hey, Mystery Man!" Zarbon screamed against the wind. "Snap out of it! We're all worried about you, kid . . . come down here!" Not a word came in reply.

Frustrated, Goku flew towards the boy, only to be blocked by some sort of power shield he'd never experienced . . . concentrating briefly, he willed himself to Trunks, but the same effect occurred. Apparently, either Trunks didn't want to let him in, or something _else didn't. "TRUNKS! CAN YOU HEAR ME? IT'S GOKU!" _

Trunks didn't reply, salty tears stinging his eyes. Again, no sound was uttered.

 "COME ON, LITTLE GUY! LET ME TALK TO YOU! I CAN'T GO THROUGH YOUR BARRIER! WE'RE _NOT GOING TO HURT YOU, OKAY? JUST LET US THROUGH!"_

 "Goku! Be careful! The kid's building some sort of energy-- an enormous amount! It'd be enough to kill even _you, Goku. Be careful!" Zarbon called over. _

 "If anyone's who can sense this kinda stuff isn't here now, they will be shortly," Goku said quietly, directing this comment towards the moody Vegeta. "Maybe they'll be able to help us."

Vegeta didn't say anything for a while, and finally, for no apparent reason at all, he started talking. "Kakarott, he's got your brat's bear," he said dryly. "And it looks like he doesn't want to talk to us." Before them, Trunks wavered unsteadily, shoulders shaking with the sheer amount of power he was supporting. The said bear was clutched tightly to his chest in a weak gesture for comfort. "I don't think he's going to hold up under all that, either. The result will be catastrophic . . . everything around us will be whipped out."

Goku shook his head silently.

Behind them, another figure sped toward the sight. "_What's going on?" Krillin shouted over the amounting noise. "__What's up with Trunks? Is the world in danger?!" _

 "Don't know!" Goku shouted.

Ripples broke the air, shaking the very earth beneath their feet. Silent as ever, Trunks stood against it all. But as all mortals, he had a limit, and he was fast approaching it . . . falling to the ground, the boy closed his eyes. Vegeta braced himself, agonizing over this boy's fate _as if he were my son. _

No explosions occurred. No earthquakes persisted. The air was heavy with the intensified energy, forming a near solid wall around the boy when a blinding flash startled them all. With the sheer amount of energy he'd gathered, Trunks was forced Super Saiyajin to simply contain it. Pulling the energy around him faster now, he let small amounts of it go to keep the rest stable, releasing it in controlled bursts of lightening or thunderclaps, brilliant fireworks that would be deadly to touch.

 "**_TRUNKS!" Blinking in surprise, Trunks slowed the energy intake to a crawl, and looked at the other fighters he loved and respected. "_****_WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?!?!" Vegeta. That could only be his father. Smiling wryly, he contemplated what his answer was._**

 "I'm doing what has to be done," he replied calmly, ice in his voice. Unbeknownst, his appearance changed once more. Golden hair bleached white, and green eyes disappeared into a glowing mass of quicksilver. _Everything has a price, his mind whispered. __And everything that lives must__ die._

 "**_WHAT?!"_**

 "I'm sorry!"

 "Trunks, what are you going to do?" Goku asked, stronger, more restrained.

 "I'm going to fix everything. I'm going to do it because I have to . . ."

 "FIX?" Krillin cried. "AND HOW DO YOU INTEND TO fix EVERYTHING WITH ALL THAT??"

 "You don't understand . . ."

 "And we _won't unless you explain what what-the-FUCK-is-GOING ON HERE!" _

Seventeen. Trunks blinked. When had he gotten here?

 "You've got some major power there, kid, but what do you intend on _doing with it?" Eighteen. Unbeknownst, she echoed Krillin's words._

 "I'm sorry. I don't want to . . . but it's my duty. If I don't, every universe that ever existed and ever _could exist will fail. And it'll all be because __I wasn't strong enough to handle it. I can't let that happen. Even if it means--" he choked, tears running down his face. "Even if it means I have to . . . kill everything here, I will." _

 "TRUNKS! YOU'D BETTER GET YOUR ASS IN GEAR, KID, 'CAUSE WE WON'T STAND FOR THAT!" Vegeta again.

 "I didn't think you'd understand. This shadow universe . . . if I allow it to remain, it'll consume _everything. You'll all die, and everyone I know from my time will die. Everyone who ever existed will be WIPED OUT AS IF THEY WERE NEVER EVEN **THERE! **__I'm sorry, but I can't let that happen."_

Concentrating on the power he knew remained, Trunks gathered what else he'd need, and pulled it around him like a shield. "I . . . am . . . sorry . . ." he whispered. No need to worry about not being heard. Everything on Earth could hear him now, could hear his heart beat, and taste his tears.

 "TRUNKS! You're wrong, Trunks! Kiddo, you're not well! You're just sick, that's ALL! You don't need to do this . . . Trunks . . . please . . ." Goku again. "This isn't RIGHT, AND WHETHER OR NOT YOU'RE MY FRIEND, I WON'T **LET YOU TAKE OVER AND KILL EVERYTHING!"**

**_You will die anyway. His thoughts. They could all hear him? Well. Maybe he wouldn't need his body after all . . . _**

 "**_TRUNKS!" Vegeta. _**

 "_I don't want to hurt you, Trunks . . ."_

**_And I don't want to hurt you. __Any _****of you. **

 "Then don't! Trunks, you've got a choice!"

**_No._**

And so the world, the false world of shadows and lies, exploded. 

*****

tbc…

Next chapter should be up tomorrow, Saturday the 9th. Why? Because it's very short.

I realize I've been promising a more exciting, more interesting chapter for a little while now, but I've gotten into an argument with my editor and friend about where this chapter should end. *Laughs* well, what do you think? Was this one too long, or not? 

If you've read Felix's story, this is most obviously the chapter where things split; up until now, I was mirroring her action. *Bows* but, the idea…hmmm…whacked me over the head until I wrote it. 

So. Did anyone expect that? *Wonders* 

Thanks to Mel-chan, Raen, Valery, and Gohan's Chick. Me, you don't count, 'cause I know you're Meghan 'cause you used your nick-name. *Pauses* but, thanks anyway.

Mel-chan, *grins* thanks muchly so for the input! …*silence* not much you can say to that…! Reviews and such make me happy, and thank you for the compliments. I'm curious about what you were thinking about, mostly because deep thoughts are often inspiring. If you have a choice between laughing and crying, always laugh…but that could just be me.

Raen, thank you for the compliment. I know what you mean about no time. So thanks for stopping by and dropping a review. Vegeta _is_ being weird. I'm trying to fix that…so far, it involves much inserting bits and pieces in old chapters, and writing an interlude…yep, Zarbon is back for a reason. Whether or not that's a good reason is up to you…

Valery, thanks for commenting. But, nope, I don't write romance fics. I haven't ever, and don't see myself starting anytime soon…but if that changes, you'll probably notice! *grins* Trunks is a cool character…hope I'm portraying him correctly…I've never actually met him, or seen all the episodes with him in it. Just the "History of Trunks" thing. *Snerk!* Trunks/Zarbon? Now that would be pretty funny…in theory. 

Gohan's Chick, thank you! Uh. I'm sorry. I've been ordered not to answer any questions that are answered in the story…hopefully they were answered in this chapter…who _would _win between Zarbon and Vegeta? Hm. Probably Zarbon 'cause of the 'no training' factor Vegeta's got going. Unfortunately, things ended rather abruptly for them, so their scheduled death match had to be canceled…

Meghan, I'm not sure I should reply to you. I know what I'm working on; you wrote me a long, detailed list. No gagging. I'm WORKING on the others…they'll be done eventually…hopefully soon…

 Comments, critiques, rants and other such reviews are always welcome. I can't improve, or correct things, if you don't tell me what's wrong.


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: I don't own Dragon Ball Z.**

**Warnings: confusion, angst, recap. **

Losing Innocence

            by Taes Willett

**Chapter 6**

They watched. All of them, the friends and fellows of the young half-Saiyajin called Trunks, they were not dead, but watching. Their bodies would die soon, they knew, but this kid, this boy they'd thought a friend was destroying it all . . . 

And finally, they knew. It was not only their world he would destroy, but also their _universe. And nothing they could do would stop him . . . they were not . . . strong enough._

He was bone white now, as was his hair. The only remaining colors were his eyes; filling the empty quicksilver with inky black and the deep green of space as the universe he pulled into his very being was absorbed. Stars were hung there, and here, in the physical presence, they winked out. His tears were silent, and filled with grief so profound they, with their not-quite-dead bodies, could feel. Memories crowded one another, his memories . . . reliving themselves through his mind and in theirs. 

_Mother, father, heart-sister, heart-brother, friend . . . help me. The universe is decaying. It's all ending now, and there's no one here but us . . . no one but the lone boy against the universe, our friend…one. Everything lives as one, and will die as one . . . our voices are one. __We shriek, we cry . . . _

_…but all is lost. _

_No one to help. _

_Everything's gone._

Faster and faster the universe drops out of nothingness, and into fields of green . . . space. So it's green after all, is it? Well, we can only watch as He, the only living one who will not die because of this, pulls it all into himself, swallowing it whole. 

It's all gone. Everything but us, and Him. 

And inside of him, it explodes.

Falling, falling . . . at last we fade . . .

*****

tbc…

Next chapter should be up by Friday the 15th.

Thank you, JJ-- wow, you're really fast at reviewing! Thanks for the compliments. 

Comments, critiques, rants and other such reviews are always welcome. 


	7. Book II: Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own Dragonball Z, and would rather _not_ take credit for this chapter…**

**Warnings: UNEDITED. Please save Meghan a huge chore and point out any and all grammatical errors you find. She's miffed enough at me as it is… Um. Angst. Confusion. AU (different). Probably plot holes due to the unedited nature, and new characters who need more definition.  Many dream sequences, which translates to 'really confusing parts.' **

**Author's Note: I've decided to label this 'Book II' because it takes a completely different outlook than the other chapters, and 'Chapter 1' because it wouldn't make sense to call it Chapter 7…I'd rather not make it a different story altogether, thus the 'strange titling.'  **

Loosing Innocence

Book II

            by Taes Willett

**Chapter 1**

The first thing he was truly aware of was the noise. The wind whistled in his ears, bringing him swiftly out of his sleep-fuddled state, and smartly into full consciousness. The pressure around him felt odd after staying so long in space. There he felt nothing at all…not even the ghost of emotion…

Perhaps he should find some relief in the sensation, for surely feeling something was better than nothing at all. He felt dead inside, he felt too much like an animated corpse, walking the earth with no semblance of true self. On top of that, however, there was the distinctive sentiment he could only describe as despair…and that damned annoying noise. _Oh, Kami…why the hell does falling have to be so loud__? _

He was too weak to correct his fall, and as a result, he'd probably end up slamming head first into the ground. Under normal circumstances, that wouldn't be too much of a problem, but with his energy being so low, he lacked the added bone protection chi gave him, and would probably break his neck. 

Did saving the universe always take this much out of a person?

If so, maybe it'd be a good idea just to let the fall kill him.

The pressure increased as he fell, and so did the level of noise. He was coming out of the clouds, though he couldn't remember for his life how he'd come to be _there.  __Oh Kami… his head __hurt. Trunks closed his eyes. _

_I survived the death of a universe, my own grief, and something as stupid as this __kills me…damn…and here I was thinking grief would win out. _

Wherever he was, the light was cutting through his eyelids in the most unusual manner, leading Trunks to believe maybe he hadn't shut them after all._ Shoving his grief aside for the moment, he looked around, trying to find the position of the sun. He found it in the west, naturally, where the brilliant colors bled into one another like spilt paint. His heart nearly stopped. It was beautiful…nothing on Earth could compare to that blood-red disk that hung in the air, filling the sky with its sorrow. __Only a planet with serious pollution problems can have such sunsets… the thought, spurned by one of his mother's campaigns long ago, caught him by surprise. Where was he, to see such a thing…? _

Not Earth, surely not Earth…his planet, though ruined and beyond repair in his timeline, never had such a problem. 

No, no…it couldn't be Earth…

Concern for his beloved planet overrode his despair, pushing it further out of his mind as he stared at the death of a day, swiftly falling through the air. The longer he descended, the faster he plunged. _Accelerating at a rate of 9.8 meters per second squared…if__ this is Earth. Kami help him, he wished it weren't. _

Was it selfish, to wish this fate upon another planet? 

The pressure grew even greater as time went on, and at last he felt consciousness depart…leaving him once more to the mercy of dreams.

*****

Terror surrounded him, engulfing his heart in a stiff shell of fear that couldn't be penetrated for the world. Thoughts of the androids and their murders flooded his mind, and their strength resounded in his memories. Their smiles, cruel and merciless, were there to taunt, and no matter what kind of attacks he made on them they wouldn't show so much as a bruise. 

It was as if he were fighting in a cloud thicker than he would have thought possible. He couldn't see what he was doing, and as a result, had to rely completely on his chi sense to do what his eyes couldn't. Unfortunately for him, the androids never had been ones for using their chi; they relied on their bio-ware, their enhanced speed and strength brought on by science, not what their spirit lent them.

But that's what gave him the advantage. He was fighting to save those he loved. _…a bit late for that, wouldn't you say? They fought because they were bored, if not sheer enjoyment. Desperation makes a powerful foe, and the more they fought at him, the more that emotion, coupled with fear, drove him to higher strengths. __Sometimes one has to throw caution to the wind, he thought, wishing he'd taken the time to tie his lavender hair from his eyes. _

_…lavender?_

They traded blow after blow, with no signs of weakness on their part, but already Trunks found himself slowing, desperation turning fast into stupidity. _I don't need this now! He thought vaguely, concentrating on the fight._

Eighteen swung around in a blinding circle of impossible speed, putting force enough into the round about kick to knock even a half-Saiyajin to the floor. He winced in pain, trying frantically to clear his head and open his eyes. _Why the hell is it so hard to open my fucking eyes__?!?! Finally, his struggle ceased, and the dirty scenery gave way to crisp night air, and an unforgettable view of the ocean…_

…silhouetted against the brilliant sky was a slender figure, somehow familiar, despite the unrecognizable stance. The dark curls, loose as ever, gave him away. Blinking in utter surprise, Trunks realized his hand moved by its own accord. His stark white skin was more apparent than ever in the moonlight, but the boy did nothing but smile. 

And this time, there was no sadness in it. 

Finally, Trunks felt himself relax, fighter's stance easing into a comfortable pose. How he'd become so at ease with a stranger he barely knew, he'd no idea, but there was something about this guy--

--an outstretched hand slammed into his unprotected flank, knocking the already disturbed teenager off balance and the building. The fall was shorter than he'd expected, but the force he'd been pushed at was great enough to make up for that. He was buried in two tons of rubble from one backhanded swipe he should have seen coming. 

_What the hell?_

With a burst of energy, Trunks flew through the debris and back onto the mock 'arena' and prepared himself for battle once more. Eighteen smirked, her cold blue eyes giving nothing away as she evaluated his remaining energy. Her pose was relaxed, almost as if she were just watching the sunset with passing interest, and not fighting a deadly serious battle with one of the world's strongest fighters. With a toss of her head, she turned away, arrogance written all over her delicate features.

 "Pathetic." 

With that, she walked away. 

Trunks stared, unsure what to do. He was done for if she decided to finish this fight, but if she let her guard down . . . he could get a few blows in that might actually damage her. His heart urged him to attack, to avenge the millions of deaths she was responsible for . . . his mind, exhausted and heartsick, pleaded with him to quit, to save this for another day where he had more energy. This was no battle he could win, his mind told him, but his heart said he must _try. _

Where would we be, if no one tried to save us?

…dead. 

That was answer enough for him. A ghost of a smile played across his face, determination coloring his eyes a darker shade. Pooling his energy into a tight ball, Trunks leapt up, and charged head on, moving at a speed he would've labeled impossible a few seconds before. _Desperation will do that for you, his subconscious supplied. Whatever he had left was going into this blast, and that was nothing to laugh at. _

The blond android barely turned, that smirk still showing. So she'd expected this after all. Well. Time he showed her what a Saiyajin was really made out of. Forcing his energy up and out, Trunks focused the supply into a tiny, condensed ball with enough force to destroy a good deal of the ground.

_So much for holding back, he thought vaguely, still concentrating on the task at hand. __Mom is going to be pissed if I get myself killed._

With that final thought, Trunks released the chi blast, and met head-to-head with the slender, seemingly delicate android called Eighteen. Dark eyes widened in surprise, a wordless question written clearly in those crystal like orbs. A choked cry escaped red lips, a pale face gone unhealthily white from either lack of blood or shock, Trunks couldn't tell. The slight form shuddered once, long hair sticking to a messy chest wound that should have been cauterized instantly.

_Oh, god… ohgodohgodohgodoh…what…?_

 "Trunks…?" 

Pulling back, Trunks felt his hair settle into its customary position, the golden hair he sported as a Super-Saiyajin fading fast into violet. He grabbed helplessly at the boy, trying to support him as he raked his mind for something he could do… 

There was nothing. 

 "Oh, god . . . I'm sorry Red . . . I'm so sorry . . ." the words kept pouring from his mouth, unstoppable as his lifeblood pooled from an impossible wound. _Why the hell wasn't that cauterized? The heat… _

Another forceful strike to his head sent his mind wheeling. "You fool!" Eighteen crowed, blond hair flying upward like a personal halo as she landed with a neat twist. "Why didn't you finish it?" she smirked. "Sentimental idiot. Do you really think I'll change just because you _think I should?"_

 "I…"

 "Deserve to die." She smirked. "Now _fight me! None of your holding back!" rage drove the android into a fury of blows Trunks was hard pressed to block, or even dodge. She'd taken his performance as a personal insult, and the result was something he'd __never wanted to experience. An android, fighting all out, honestly doing her best to kill him . . . or, maybe, push him to limits he didn't know he had. _

Suddenly the barrage lifted, and the girl spun into the air once again, a missile with precision accurate enough to make the boy blink. Scrambling out of the way, the boy tried in vain to regain his composure soon enough to create some sort of defense against her assault. The attempt was useless, and as her body mass and force of energy combined with the acceleration speed she gained, he knew he wasn't likely to survive this particular blow with only a few broken bones.

Cringing, he prepared himself for the attack, and ran through his options while he still had time. Damn. _There aren't any? Shit. _

Eighteen hit with even more force than he'd anticipated, throwing him into the side of the closest building, through more walls than he cared to count. The misjudgment sent his mind whirling for a moment, but the half-Saiyajin recovered quickly, springing up and out to avoid the terrible power that wanted him. 

Helplessly pulling himself up, Trunks tried not to think about the damage done with that one blow on top of everything else that'd happened. Carefully stretching out, he realized he'd cracked a large number of ribs, and probably broken at least two. Another blow like that, and he'd definitely be sporting more problems . . .

A wave of energy passed overhead, and Trunks felt his own defenses rise in response. He knew his hair had gone from its customary lavender color to a blinding white-blond that glowed with supernatural power, while he looked out at the world through green eyes. Eighteen didn't hesitate a moment, merely looking at his transformation as an added bonus, or just another part of the game. _A game? Oh Kami…help me… This time, she plays for keeps._

Their fight resumed at a whole new level, the two of them trading chi blasts as if they'd all the energy and time in the world. Eighteen was keeping her infuriatingly cool expression, and Trunks felt his power decrease with every damning blow he took, rising only for his sheer determination to survive this encounter. Beasts of hell couldn't be more ruthless in his mind, and nothing could stop him. Not this time. For once, he'd be the one to walk away…there'd be no more bodies left by this android.

The scenery around them was changing before their eyes, entire buildings falling to rubble before their might, crushing whatever was left under the weight of energy no living thing could withstand. Trunks knew there were no people in this area, but he couldn't help but wonder as the towers fell around him if he could always be accurate. Would he hesitate to destroy Eighteen if it looked as if someone might die because of it?

_Not if that someone's me, he thought._

Anger built up in his heart, filling it with such unbroken hatred he couldn't bear it. His body moved faster than he could think, reacting to hers with nary a glance. His mind barely followed the fight, until finally the anger wore off, some thirty minutes later, if time was any judge, and something else took its place. His heart, so filled with that awful, consuming fury, would have burst under the strain, but this was no easier to witness. His anger turned to leaden sorrow, an ache that gave way to pity for himself, and this android that called herself Eighteen. 

Not even pity could stop him, though. Blow after blow, he wore down at her defenses, not thinking, not consciously _trying to do more than breathe. Tears stung his eyes, but that wasn't really what held him. His mother, so beautiful in her prime, was hardly more than a shell of her former self. They'd done this to her, and they'd pay for that. He knew it; wanted it. They'd taken her from him, made him grow up in a world where his family was torn apart, where nothing could really flourish…only grow old, and die. _

Old, according to the androids, could be as young as twelve. Or as old as Gohan had been…

Something darker flashed in his mind, a universe filled with glowing pinpricks of light that could only be stars. He saw nothing of the androids here, and precious little of the planet called earth. From this vantage point, the sphere was little more than a crescent, a tiny sliver of blue and white that couldn't possibly hold the amount of life it did…even so little life as what the androids had left.

A figure floated not far from him, a glowing, terrifying thing made of pure energy. Trunks shrank back instinctively, knowing he, even in his Super Saiyajin form, couldn't hope to compare to this awful being. His hands clenched shut, and for a moment, he wondered if the androids could stand against this…person.

With some observation, Trunks realized the creature, despite its appearance, was hardly made of energy... merely surrounded by huge amounts of it. This wasn't a comforting thought. With some unease, he lowered his chi sense to nil, trying to find relative safety in that. But the person, whoever they were, had little interest in him, and concentrated on whatever they'd been doing.

Squinting, Trunks leaned forward a little, trying to get an idea what the being intended to do. The energy it amassed was amazing; more than he could handle even as he was now. Finally, the center of the world started glowing, and voices, faceless in the depths of space, cried out for someone to stop.

_…I…me. _

_Oh, god…they're talking to…that's me…_

Throwing up a shield, Trunks tore down whatever other defenses he had in place, concentrating on creating an energy field strong enough to deflect this attack, knowing in his heart there was none. He was beyond prayer, beyond hope when this boy, this Saiyajin attacked. _When I__ attack. _

_How can this be? I can't have…it's not possible. _

Retribution? Understanding only occurs with time, and nothing can force time to repeat itself so soon. That is for humans to do, not Time. So there was hardly a word to be said, and nothing he could do to stop it from happening. _So. I survive it the first time, and get wiped out when it's not me__ throwing the plays. Great._

The shield he'd thrown together wouldn't cut it. Not even thinking about the damage he could possibly do to himself, and the world below him, Trunks took a deep breath. And attacked.

*****

All around them, lights flashed and sirens rang, cutting into delicate ears with annoying persistency. The footsteps of men and women clashed loudly with the less poignant sound of the wind, even though they were far off as of yet. They'd heard his crash, and came to investigate. As far as Trunks could tell, the crater was large, and it was definitely big enough to become a small lake. Strangely enough, it was _not the size it should have been. He'd fallen from the outer regions of the atmosphere, and this pockmark wasn't nearly as big as it should be…_

The only possible explanation was a decrease in speed before he hit, and he wasn't anywhere near strong enough to do something like that at this point in time. But how…?

 "Someone call an ambulance! We've got a man down!" a woman screamed into a communication device, and though she was more than a few feet away, the noise jarred his ears more than he'd like to admit. 

 "Shit! He's not wearing a jumpsuit…not a thing to keep him from breakin' his back…" another trailed off, this one older than the woman, and male. "We're bound to have a trauma case with this one, folks…now…one question: is he theirs or ours? What craft left their man to die?" 

The people hurried to and fro, trying to gauge what kind of injuries had been inflicted on him. Finally, one of them answered the old man's question. "He ain't wearin' a uniform…could be anybody's." there was silence for a moment. "He could be a spy."

 "He could be dead, soldier, if we don't take care of him now!" there was true annoyance in the man's voice now, and a deadly promise if he wasn't obeyed instantly.

 "Yes, sir!"

Finally someone gathered courage enough to move closer, and turn him right side up. He was vaguely amused to find it was the woman, and not the man who'd contradicted his superior, that did it. Her hands were large for a woman's, and callused, unlike his mother's. With a normal human, if she chose to move him, then there would be an inconceivably high risk of paralysis. Fortunately for him, Trunks wasn't all human…

With her large, callused hands she gingerly lent support to his cramping neck, and carefully pulled him up and off the ground, only to lay him flat on his back. With such dense muscle tissue, he weighed far more than a human boy his side would, and that would come as quite a surprise to the female soldier. Trunks moaned softly, unable to withstand the sharp pain caused by his abrupt change of positions. 

 "God almighty…he's alive!" the woman called, relief surfacing in her voice, tired though she was. "Now where the hell's that ambulance?!" 

Similarly, there was relief in the old man's voice as well. "Coming, Major. It's on its way." He paused. 

Trunks sighed. Ambulance? Major? He could be only one place…there were no other planets he knew of that would use the same terminology, at least not the kind he was accustomed to. "…where…?" the question was hardly more than a sigh, and he wasn't awake enough to be sure of the answer.

There was something in his voice that brought death to mind. It was something that screamed of blood and torment, vivid scarlet on bone white skin, and the massacre of millions. Here was a man, a child, who should have given up life-- hope --long ago, but miracle of miracles, struggled incessantly against the inevitable, keeping his head high and manner calm. Yet despite his valiant efforts, there was an air of such desolation about him one could do naught but weep silently. What kind of a world would do this to so noble a spirit? What cruelty left such a boy to destruction?

To war?

There was nothing for it, and those gathered amongst the rubble where a swamp had been minutes before renewed their resolve. This child, this soldier of death, would not be left for the vultures. Earth could claim her child another time; he was theirs to receive, and theirs to comfort. The bleeding tree could wait as of yet, for no child would lie beneath…by the powers that upheld them, it would be so.

 "Let's move! God damn it, Marshal, he's not a dead man yet…so let's get that fucking ambulance here _now!" The major's voice rang like thunder in Trunks' ears, and certainly held enough authority to move even the most reluctant man. Though his ears worked wondrously, his eyes were neither completely open nor completely shut, but the twilight-- closer to dusk by this time --shone through the cracks like blood seeping through his fingers…_

 "You're just north of Fort Demoines, soldier," the major replied after a moment's hesitation. Her voice was a strange mixture of sorrow, determination and anger, similar to Goku's, of all people…but…he was…

 "…dead…every--" he chocked, shoulders shaking and breath coming in short, labored gasps. "It's all…my fault…" visions of the worlds he'd demolished filled his mind alongside the people he'd sacrificed for all else…shouldn't they have gotten a choice? His rational mind argued _no, they shouldn't have, for doomed souls argued vengeance and yearned for naught but bloodshed…even the most peaceful would resort to one of the many natural instincts. To kill…an eye for an eye. __Justice._

The major stiffened noticeably at his self-accusation, desperation, helplessness and anger flared in her amber eyes, undirected and unfocused. Such fury was not good for the soul; it caused difficultly in definition and control. Such raw emotions irritated Trunks for the most part, and left him feeling abused and disheveled. "Rest assured, soldier, this wasn't your fault. The dogs who caused this monstrosity are the fiends we've fought so long…we'll avenge your comrades!"

_No, no…you've got it all wrong…he thought, quietly trying to fend off the onslaught of fear, despair and disappointment before his heart broke. But he couldn't do a thing; his body was too tired, too exhausted to follow his commands. He felt hollow…like a dead man walking; with only memories and sharp, stinging pain to remind him that __yes, he lived as of yet. And there was that annoying, nagging sense of hope-- at relief and unnoticed __joy at being alive. Nothing in the worlds, not even death, not murder, was worth suicide without cause._

Life can be a damned thing.

As the ambulance drove into view, carefully stopping at the edge of the crater and sending a team to receive him, Trunks' vision began to fade, leaving the sorrowful boy alone…again.

*****

_Pain. Always the same merciless ache that burned deeper than flesh, a stinging reminder of what he was __not. For all of eternity, it seemed, he'd been lying here, waiting for death to ease his hurts, trying not to remember why he felt the way he did . . . but with awareness came memory, and that was less pleasant than the sores._

Midnight eyes flashed open, and stars twinkled and died in the space of a breath, just as others sparkled into existence, forever continuing the cycle that would not-- _could not --continue where it was intended. He saw, but his eyes were unseeing, filled with memories too profound to comprehend. A nameless sorrow drew itself over the tormented warrior, if he could be called that, and whatever was left of his battered sense of self cringed. _

Too much. Red had simply asked too much . . . he may have survived, but what was there in that? 

_They're alive, somewhere… But it wasn't the same. _

He'd never known them, as a child, and had only begun to get a feel for their personalities in the brief amount of time he'd known them. They were _dead, for all the gods' sakes, and nothing would change that. People of remarkable similarity may exist still, but they, with the unique traits that made them up, were dead. _

His fault.

Somehow he uttered a whisper of the agony he felt growing inside him, a small shadow of a whimper, a moan that could hardly be classified as noise. In his mind's eye, the endless chasm that was space filled infinity, until power enough to cripple even that roused itself within him, pulling it all inside. _Inside, inside, where it will all stay until Death claims the day…_

_My fault, my fault…stupid, really…'not old enough to love as yet, but old enough to die indeed . . .' _

It was sheer folly to agree to Red's terms, even if he _was right. Trunks was born and raised to prevent idiots like him from destroying entire **universes. Not that Red was an idiot. **__More likely I am. _

If wishes could carry the weight of the world, couldn't he just…_wish the problem away? Whatever it was. Something about everything in existence dying, maybe that was it…_

With a sigh unuttered and unheard, consciousness loosed its hold on him, returning the half-Saiyajin to restless slumber once again. Ever loyal, the winking stars followed obediently, playing out his memories in precise detail. One, two, three, one, two, three…over and over. A slow, haunting waltz began to form in his mind, and in one smooth transition, dancers-- his dead friends --appeared from nothingness. 

Gone were the memories. Back to the illusions once more.

*****

In one moment's reprise, consciousness seized him with the ruthless persistency he'd come to associate with evil. The quiet lull of his soft, enveloping bed nearly pulled him back to sleep, but the nightmares were too fresh on his mind to surrender so easily. Besides, there was something disturbingly unfamiliar about this resting place. Something painful, and something unknown.

It stank of fear, hatred, and hopelessness.

His eyes snapped open, revealing a low white ceiling that had started yellowing around the corners-- if it was due to age or ill repair, Trunks couldn't tell --and two not-so-white walls around him. It was a large room, but heavy curtains, once white, but now a muted gray like everything else around him, separated it into unknown portions. It was a bleak, disheartening place, and for once he was not hard pressed to see how the occupants could give up hope so easily. A prolonged period of time here would kill even the most optimistic people's hopes.

Slowly, he began to recognize the low ringing going through his head was a vaguely familiar voice, and not gravel scraping against his skin. Someone was speaking while moving papers about. There was another noise coming from the room, though it wasn't nearly so distinguishable, it held a memorable tone in his mind; it was the soft murmur of a machine whirling away, preceding with its business as though he and the rest of the world didn't exist. At home, he'd been around such mechanisms since he was a child, and rather than startling him, it eased his thoughts into more manageable streams. 

For a moment, the words spoken meant nothing to him, coming across as mere sounds, and not a thing more. The intonation was varied and smooth, with jumps that best fit the length of the phrase, and connected one to another. But it was the precise, crisp way the person enunciated that cut through the wall barring actual understanding, and into his mind.

 "--need you to take care of the boy. The tests show that his mind is still active, and has yet to cease reacting to outside stimulants. A c_oma is not a synonym for __dead, do you understand me?" the person, a woman, he assumed, firmly pressed something into the other's hands, without the flash most would use when making a point. "I want a full report by the end of next week; you're not so overrun you can't handle that, soldier. The damn rebels don't spare lives on purpose."_

Somehow he managed to listen and distinguish one word from another, but neither heard nor understood anything. Dazed and confused, he pushed himself to a sitting position and tried to focus on the speaking woman's face, looking over the more delicate blond beside her for barely a moment. Blinking in surprise, he realized with a start that the major, an angry, frustrated woman with an easy sense of control, and this cool headed, decisive lady were one and the same. 

His chest shook, and his head throbbed. Slowly, he breathed in, but the tightening muscles hurt like hell, and wouldn't allow for any air to enter. He whimpered softly, hissing in efforts to ease the ache. 

Both women turned at the noise, and the blond squeaked in sudden shock, dropping the papers the major handed her. The major, for her part, seemed only mildly taken aback. She lifted an eyebrow, and spoke directly to the boy, her low, soothing voice fading into the background as the mechanical whirl overrode his senses. She was talking, yes, but the words reverted to nonsense with the return of pain, and he couldn't decipher a word of it.

 "What?" he slowly asked, and let his head hang, trying to quell the agony communication created. He was interrupting her nearly melodic speech with a slow question that grated his nerves. His tone was low and more akin to an animal's than a man's. It irritated his throat as if he'd swallowed gravel, not simply spoken a word. "I can't…"

She frowned, and moved forward at a slow pace, cautious and secure in her actions as if he were a bird; easily startled and best approached with care. Slowly, she began to speak again, and this time, a few words jumped out at him, becoming clear and refined against the backdrop her speech created. "…remember…happened?" she paused. "….name…soldier…." waiting for him to respond, she left off a moment. He did not look up. "…lucky…survived." Her voice trailed off, and the only noise in the room came from the other girl, and the machines.

The blond, a young woman he'd assumed to be a nurse, shuffled incessantly, trying to organize the papers she'd dropped. Trunks assumed she'd been taking her time to hear the conversation between the major and he, but there really was no way to tell.

 "…water?" he asked finally, after the silence became too much for him to stand. The major nodded-- funny, how he could hear such simple movements, when sight gave up for him --and walked across the room. The sound of falling water clearly cut the noise that persisted, and his dry throat tightened and cracked at the thought of it. How long had it been since he'd last awoken? 

Swallowing, and scraping his throat for the effort, he decided it must have been some time. 

Less than a minute later, and a cool cup was thrust in his face. Slowly, he let go of his head, and looked the major in the eye, wondering what kind of person he'd find. Manners were one thing, but personality was another. Her eyes widened a fraction, and both her eyebrows rose in expression of astonishment, taking the young man aback. He extended one hand, and grasped the vessel firmly, but with enough control to keep it from breaking.

The water was gone in a few seconds, much to his disappointment, and his throat still hurt. The distance from the bed to the water container seemed like an awfully long way. _Kami, why…? Sometimes, life really didn't seem worth it. He took a shaky breath. "My name is Trunks Briefs," he murmured, looking the major in the eyes. She met and held his gaze, nodding her understanding._

 "What regiment did you serve under?" she asked slowly. He looked at her blankly; the question made no sense to him. She looked a bit concerned, and bit her lip before saying, "Who did you serve under?"

Trunks' confusion increased. "…serve…under?" he echoed. 

She sighed. "Where have you been stationed the past few months?"

 "I don't…know..." he winced, and put one hand to his head, wondering why it was so tender. "Did I hit my head or what? I can't think clearly, and couldn't understand a word you were saying before." He scowled in annoyance, wishing he'd stayed awake enough to catch his fall. With Gohan's training, shouldn't he have been able to land correctly-- with or without energy? It was damn frustrating.

His expression and easy manner took her off guard, and startled laughter flowed from her lips. She wasn't a pretty woman, but with a smile dancing in her eyes and across her face, she could be called beautiful. "Yes, kid, yes you did." 

He smiled slowly, and felt some of the emotional pain ease, and his spirit felt lighter. But he could never forget completely…there was always the soul consuming despair that would follow him to his grave. He sighed, and looked up, wondering why the ceiling, which couldn't be more than a few years old, was so dirty. 

 "So what _do you remember?"_

 "Falling." He paused, and looked thoughtful. "It was loud, cold, and uncomfortable." Grief flashed across his face, and he looked at the major decisively. "I killed them…it's my fault they're dead." He looked from her to the nurse. "I deserve to…to pay for their lives…the only--"

Anger flared in the major's eyes, and despite his sorry condition, she smacked him-- hard --across the cheek. He blinked, and touched the spot in amazement. "Don't you dare pull that on me! You're no more responsible for their deaths than _I am! I swear, soldier, if you go suicidal on me, I'll pull you back from the dead just so I can kill you myself!!" for that moment, he believed her. _

 "Yes, mo--uh…sir." Cheeks flaming, Trunks looked away, wondering why he'd connected this woman with his mother, of all people, when they were so different from one another. 

 "Now get some sleep. Know that I fully expect you to take care of yourself until the doctors deem you ready, so you do _nothing until they say so. Understood? I won't have you doing anything stupid, kid. We need you alive and well." _

 "Why…" he coughed, and shivered. She looked at him sharply, as if she were ready to reproach him again. He winced. "Why do you call me soldier…?" Did she know? How could she? Battles, fast, bloody, and full of fury flooded his mind. The stink of death, the nature of beauty transformed into death and rot filled his thoughts, turning any hope for release aside.

She stared at him.

 "I'm not…a soldier…" he looked uncomfortable. "I think." Transferring his gaze to her, and hoping without cause to believe she'd know, he held his breath. Would defending the earth against androids be considered the act of a soldier? Was that what he was? Trunks exhaled slowly. "I'm a civilian…aren't I?" 

The major dared to look at the nurse, unsure as to how she should respond. "You're not sure…?" Doubt, disbelief and confusion were prominent emotions on her face. Wonder filled her eyes, and the emotions that she'd experienced the first time she saw this striking boy resurfaced. What about him caused such an extreme reaction? She felt it before, and without seeing those strange eyes of his… They became all the pain, hurt and sadness in the universe, with the self-same joy and acclamation life heralds so freely within each star. His eyes. They were obsidian pools, darker than night and yet the same, for in those shining eyes, the starry night was hung. Worlds, planets, comets and suns exploded into being, shone for moments alone, and died. Quiet with melancholy or exuberant, all the stars lived and died as nothing else could.

 "Well…I don't believe I'm a soldier, no…" he sighed. "But…because of me, so many have died." He closed his eyes to them for a moment, and bowed his head. "So," he began, "what does that make me?"

Their silence was answer enough.

He smiled ruefully, and looked up; the very picture of dejection and hope come to life. It was an odd match. "I'll tell you, if you won't…" still, they remained silent. "That makes me a murderer.

What, major, do you do to killers?"

Pain filled her eyes, but she said nothing. Her silence was damnable. 

 "You execute them, no?"

Still, nothing.

"I thought as much…it's the onl--"

 "You won't die, Trunks." She interrupted. "Your purpose has not yet been filled, and I do not truly believe you a murderer, nor a civilian. You were meant to be here, and here you shall stay. You will give our men and women hope, and you will offer the strength of leadership we've lacked this far…" she smiled grimly, hope shining. "God has granted you life, and a task no other could perform. You're a soldier, and have been for some time yet. 

 "War is not new to you, despite your years, and you have something many politicians, generals and other leaders of men have long sought. You have passion, and the true ability to convince others in your truth, your hope. _You can pull us out of this bloodbath, and into a new era."_

Overawed, Trunks stared at her, mouth agape. "You don't even know me--" he wasn't yet twenty, and not fully done with childhood. Who was he to lead any war, let alone one on an unfamiliar planet, whose cause he cared nothing for, and knew nothing about?

 "I don't need to. You have the presence about you." The conviction in her voice was startling, and through her he began to see… in her vision, blood, victory and defeat were as one, but hope glimmered through it all. Strange, how he, the son of Vegeta, would even be considered to become a beacon of hope when it was the Son family who truly inspired the best of mankind.

 "I could betray you all--" he'd done so before. Galaxies ended because of him. Nothing could keep him from repeating the same mistake, or from damaging things beyond repair. He couldn't match the androids, he couldn't match Cell, and for Kami's sake, he couldn't even save his father! Who was he to lead? Who was he?  

 "You wouldn't." In his mind, stars exploded with heavy hearts. He couldn't keep the truth from himself; no one would follow a child who'd failed so utterly. There was sadness within him that anyone could see, and the pain, humiliation and hopelessness enough to last many lifetimes.

 "But I have…I betrayed everyone I ever cared for--" traitor. He couldn't be trusted, and any worthwhile relationship was founded on just that; trust. He could never, never reveal him and keep their faith, and yet to do so would kill him. They, with their pride and moral beliefs, could never forgive him even if he did. Loosing was the only option he had.

 "Not so." 

How could she defy him so? Couldn't she see?

 "You weren't _there--" No one living was. No one but him. _

The most deadly secrets we keep locked inside, and the most lethal of all we keep from all. Even ourselves. His was a secret locked deep within, showing itself within the 'safety' of his thoughts over and over, repeating and changing as old children's rhymes did. The beat was irregular, and the words were never consistent. Only the feelings remained the same, and some of the images. 

His friends. 

Dying.

 "But I could have been. And if I were, I would have understood." They hadn't. Not even the planets, and they had accepted their fate with varying degrees of defiance. Very few willingly submitted themselves to destruction, when the will to live was so strong within them. The stars…huge, inconceivable masses of energy and matter that experienced eternity so different from the beings that made their homes on them… 

They were galaxies within themselves, entities unborn and undying. 

Forever changing.

 "No." That was it. Nothing more should be said. "You couldn't. No one could…" but he went on anyway. Just as he had then, he took the time to explain, soothe and attempt to reconcile with himself, and everyone around him. But they couldn't accept. _He couldn't. _

 "Have you so little faith?" the question hit him like a knife, embedding itself deep within his heart and twisting at the base. He twisted with the sting, trying to will himself to not feel a thing. Becoming a corpse.   
 "…yes…" 

Becoming a lie.

 "What kind of behavior is that?"

It was a coward's behavior.

A failure.

 "I can't trust anyone. Not even myself."

He hadn't wanted to kill anyone. Not a soul…

He wanted…he needed them to be all right. He needed their safety, their comfort, and their joy. 

 "I see."

But she couldn't.

And with that, the major collected her files, gave a quick look to the nurse, and rose from her chair, fully intending on leaving Trunks. He didn't move to stop her. And so she left with a defiant, glorious look. 

He didn't know what to believe.

*****

The tears stung. He didn't like the way they fell down his cheeks and dripped off his face, so he attempted to brush them off, scrubbing furiously at his eyes. His eyes hurt, and he felt swollen, too stretched out and ill suited for the life given him. Each breath suffocated him, closing the passageways too tight for comfort and allowing no room for expansion.  His head was too light, and he felt as if the simplest movements would unsteady him and send him to the floor headfirst. And yet…

He couldn't figure out why he was so upset.

The rain didn't help. It darkened the room too much, and left the hospital cold. From the lack of sufficient heating or constant openings of doors to admit or release patients, the interior was hostile, especially to a half-Saiyajin who'd never experienced true cold. 

He ached. 

Was it self-pity that caused him to feel so…empty? Or was it something else all together? 

He was arrogant, like his father, and too willing to place the blame on others when it surely deserved to be set squarely on his shoulders. He was petty, and angered too easily over useless things. How many times had he screamed at his mother for chastising him? For not letting him _be who he was? For her, behaving exactly as she felt, and reacting as freely as she did?_

It hurt.

But slowly, so slowly, the terrible mourning left him. In its wake, he felt a dull sadness that filled his entire body. It matured, and set itself deep within his bones, and found permanent lodging as easily as if he'd been waiting for that his entire life. He sighed, and settled back into the single, flat pillow he'd been given, and pulled the cover over his head. It didn't help.

*****

tbc…

The next chapter won't be up until I'm done revising this one…I suspect it will take another week? Hard to say.

Note, from **Saturday, November 16**: …I'm sorry, but due to a number of family situations, I can't really be doing much revising right now. We've got to travel for the next three days to take care of some things…

*Sweatdrops* anyways, the only editing this has gone through is my own, and as the author, I'm bound to miss the little things, and probably some big things as well. I've been trying to work on the character development, the connections and such interesting things, but some irritating person through away the little revisions I was making. *Sigh* that's ultimately the most frustrating thing that could happen, huh?

This is the _last _time I'm posting an unfinished chapter…

Again, please point out any and all grammatical errors you may find, or things you think are missing pieces (like unrealistic chara's or something). You don't need to be polite; Meghan usually isn't. 

Thanks be to you, Trunk's Lover! Hmm, I'm seeing a common trend…*smiles* yep, Trunks is going through quite a bit…sorry to say, but it doesn't get better any time soon. As to how can I make him do that? Uh. *Grins* you can go with **a**) I'm a seriously demented person or **b**) I was wacked over the head with an idea I can't ignore… or **c**) this is only the beginning. Again, I'll be working on this chapter for a while… 

Comments, critiques, rants and other such reviews are always welcome. 


	8. Book II: Chapter 2

**Warnings: **violence, some inappropriate language for people under the age of 13, angst, and confusion. AU, original characters, and one somewhat OoC Trunks. 

**Disclaimer:** Dragon ball Z and all affiliated characters belong to their creator and the companies that own the rights to the anime. This means they池e not mine. I知 making no money on this. 

Losing Innocence

by Taes Willett

Book II

**Chapter 2**

_Silence is lost on me now…all I can do is sit and watch, waiting for the stars to fall from their broken hinges._ Looking from the earth to the heavens, Trunks felt his eyes lift upward, observing once again that seamless beauty. The darkened sky shone indigo, with tinges of gray and a beautiful navy staining its horizon. The white pinpricks identified as stars had yet to show their bright faces, but it wouldn't be long now, if time held true. 

Sometimes waiting is always best . . . but at others, the sheer magnitude of the oncoming events causes all patience to be thrust aside for stronger things.

Somewhere, the night itself is parted, leaving blank space in its stead. Here the silver mist gathered, and beneath its shield he felt his father's protective embrace engulf him as if he were no more than a small child. And for a while, everything was all right…though he cried for what felt like an eternity, his father held him warmly, letting the tears come without complaint. Here, in this mysterious cloud, nothing could hurt him…

A wordless plea for mercy cut through his mind, bringing the peace shattering to the floor. It had been brought on, no doubt, by his guilt-- obsession? --with his acclaimed saving of the universe.

Again and again. For seven days he heard Life's cry for the same boon, to live . . . to flourish. 

It cut at the heart and left ribbons in its stead. It left the eyes dark; beyond tears. Here was what being a hero brought . . . _nothing but pain and heartache._

It's said that it'd taken seven days to create the universe in all its glory, and with much care and thought. So it had taken him that time with no rest whatsoever to pull it apart. Even something as "shoddily" constructed as that Shadow realm was too complex, too _alive_ to dismantle in less than that.

But it hurt. 

It hurt so much he didn't know if he would ever recover; his skin was bleached white, his eyes black. His very chi burned within him like salt thrown in a wound, and even the smallest power usage brought only more pain.

Where was his father when there was so much to learn? 

_Dead. I killed him. _

Where were his friends, when their support was needed? 

_Slaughtered. I gutted them all._

Where was his mother, when he needed a comforting hand? 

_Befouled. I left their bodies to rot with the rest._

And where are the innocents, when he needed to know if he'd done right? 

_Murdered. I left them to suffer for my sins._

Where is the evil that did this?

…

The silence brought no answers.

*****

Nearby, a bed squeaked in protest as its occupant rolled over, and the machinery connected to the man began a whirlwind of protest as various pieces of equipment were strung out of order by this simple movement. Trunks was awake in an instant, though he could barely keep his eyes open. So there he was, lying on a bed of starched whites that had clearly seen better days, if the numerous stains told true, under a low ceiling that'd begun to yellow, despite its age. It wasn't exactly the best place to wake up, and he certainly could live with better surroundings. 

The obtrusive noise brought on by the machines persisted, and there didn't seem to be an end to it in sight. Annoyed, and altogether unwilling to go back to sleep, Trunks looked to the mess of wires he seemed to be connected to, and frowned. Though it was no match for the machines he'd seen in the past, it was a far cry above what he'd come to expect in his time. Nonetheless, it wasted resources, and took up too much space. _Beep. _Not to mention the fact that it was unusually _loud_. 

Sitting up again, Trunks took the entire thing into perspective, trying to gauge what its purpose was, and how he could safely fix it without disturbing that function or shocking himself. Knowing he could survive even the most deadly electricity storm didn't mean he'd be careless enough to provoke further misuse of energy. His objectives in mind, Trunks settled down, and began to work.

Upgrading the machine took some time without the materials, and fixing it to be more efficient took even longer. By the time he finished, he had a small pile of unused parts, a fixed gadget, and a mind that wouldn't stop working on 'electronic mode' as his mom liked to say. This meant he was analyzing everything around him, and coming up with solutions to problems that didn't really fit into the scheme of things while processing what he could keep and what needed to be thrown out. It tended to be more irritating than helpful, especially when he'd rather be doing something else. 

Nevertheless, it was welcome relief from the pain nightmares brought on.

Pocketing the scraps for later use, Trunks' stomach growled. _Hmm,_ he thought. _Seems that it's about time for breakfast…_ He stretched, yawned, and slowly pulled himself into a standing position while searching for the proper balance. 

Standing took a bit more trial and error than he was willing to admit to, and too much effort to be considered a success. _First things first, _he decided. _Time to see what's wrong…_ he headed over to the bed, and its occupant, that'd so rudely awoken him some time ago, noticing with distaste that the noise hadn't stopped. As he'd half expected, the cause was simply a restless dreamer moving about in his sleep, and tangling the wires and dripping some sort of solution onto the floor… Gently, he took hold of the man, who he assumed to be a soldier, and pulled him onto his back. This done, he recalled the way he'd been wired, and in this way gauged the order and purpose of each knotted cord.

Settling back into the 'electronic mode,' Trunks leaned against the bed and began the process of remodeling yet another machine.

Halfway through the procedure, the soldier began to gain awareness, groaning in what Trunks assumed to be pain and weariness. Not wanting to further wake the man, and conversely unwilling to give up his objective, Trunks hesitated. 

The scientist in him won. Leaving the machine half completed would be an outright invitation to disaster. 

Picking up where he left off, Trunks tried not to notice the man beside him. Unfortunately, the man had no qualms with noticing _him._ "Who th' hell are you?" the sleep befuddled soldier asked, still not quite awake. "And _what_ are ye trying t' do t' my…uh…machine?"

Trunks pulled a piece of scrap from his pocket, and managed to fit it into its counterparts place. Pocketing the part he'd replaced, he avoided the man's gaze. "Trunks Briefs. I'm a scientist." He said simply, and continued to tinker with the machine.

The soldier frowned. "No, you ain't." he declared. "You're a patient, same as me. So what in God's name are you trying to do?" he demanded, sounding more awake now than he had a few minutes ago. Somewhat surprised, Trunks wondered if it was the mention of his being a scientist that had awoken him, or his name. 

Deciding to ignore the dispute concerning his knowledge of science, Trunks carefully shortened one wire and lengthened another, teasing the both of them into their proper positions. "You woke half the patients here by mangling your wires. Unfortunately, you seemed to have caused some damage to the interior of the machine, resulting in a small malfunction." The soldier looked puzzled, but no more willing to believe Trunks' claims now than he had before. "Basically, I'm fixing it so this doesn't waste so much energy." 

Disbelieving, the man rolled his eyes. "So you're willing to possibly compromise my life for a little wasted energy?" he challenged. "And I'd bet my ass you're the only one woken up around here; half the guys on this ward are deaf and dumb to the world; coma patients!" 

Annoyed, Trunks frowned. "So what are you doing here, then?" he wanted to know. 

The patient smirked. "No room upstairs. Kicked me down here 'cause of problems with roommates." The look in his eyes dared him to say otherwise.

Trunks wasn't impressed. "I thought this was a military facility." He said simply, fusing two extra wires together while patiently coding the bits of computer fragments. "Aren't soldiers supposed to be more well behaved than everyone else?" he challenged.

This comment was met with outright laughter. "Hell, no. I ain't no soldier!" he grinned. "Do I look it?" Trunks didn't bother to answer. "I'm a mechanic, plain an' simple. Got caught in the crossfire 'tween the rebels and our folk." He winked. "Got me a few battle scars to impress the ladies, thas' all." He drawled, doing his best to imitate a southern accent. "So I know you aren't a sci-in-tist, Mr. Breath," his smile grew, if such a thing were possible. "Because I know all of 'em around here, and not a one is as short and skinny as you."

 "Briefs." Trunks commented, and sighed. "My name is Trunks Briefs." 

 "Nice to meet you, then, _Mister_ Trunks Briefs." He half bowed. "Just call me Mack," he grinned again. "Mack McMurphy." Trunks nodded, and continued to tailor a funnel. "Take a fellow's hand when it's offered, Mister Briefs," he suggested, a bit of annoyance creeping into the good humor. 

Hesitating, Trunks turned, taking Mack's hand in a firm handshake, trying not to notice the surprise he saw in the man's face. Had he changed so much? What about him made others stare so? 

 "Hot damn, Trunks," Mack breathed. "What in all the hells happened to _you?_" he laughed shakily, taken aback. "And I thought _my_ skin was weird!" he grinned again, easily finding his cool. Trunks blinked at the reference, and glanced briefly at McMurphy's hand again, noticing with some unease that it was red and scarred as if he'd thrust it into the fire. 

Trunks shrugged. "I fell." He said simply, and went back to his work.

He could practically feel McMurphy rolling his eyes. "And?" he prompted.

Pretending to ignore the question, Trunks continued his task, bending the wires in a spiral design as he considered reworking the entire electrical system. The funnel was nearly complete, so his mission would be done with in a short amount of time. 

Mack sighed in frustration, sensing he wasn't going to get much of an answer from this sort of chap. "So, Mister Briefs," he began, an edge of laughter creeping into his voice. "What are _you_ doing in the coma ward?"

 "Uh," Trunks' hands paused for a moment, leaving the room noticeably quieter. He winced. _Now how's that for a brilliant response?_ He thought glumly. 

Mack only laughed. "So, did ya want some stimulating company?" he smirked, and nodded self-righteously. "The nurse on this ward is an awfully sweet little thing, ain't she?" 

Trunks sighed, trying desperately not to notice McMurphy's comments. "So how'd you end up in the 'crossfire,' being a mechanic?" he asked quietly, attempting to shove the conversation in the opposite direction. 

Now it was McMurphy's time to sigh. "Tryin' to play hero, that's all," he murmured, looking at his hands. Shrugging good naturedly, he tried to resume his easy-going attitude. "Was trying to help one of our fighters make a quick take off and nail them suckers where it _hurts._" He laughed ruefully. "All I got for my trouble was a blown up fighter with one dead as a door-knob pilot and a pair of crippled hands." He raised an eyebrow cynically. "How's that for destiny? I try to do some good, for once in my life, and wind up a cripple because of it."

He grinned, a little crestfallen. "Fate's one mother fuckin' son of a bitch, ain't she?" rubbing his claw-like hands together, he attempted to move his fingers with little true success. "So, whenever I heal up, I won't be worth _shit_ to anybody. What good's a mechanic without his hands?" he wondered, pained by the thought. "It's 'g'bye, Mack; nice knowin' ya. Have a nice life!' with a measly four hundred dollars compensation to get me back on my feet and a sentimental letter of apology." He sighed, pulling his hands into fists. "An' straight into the life of a cripple."

Trunks' hands trembled with annoyance and sympathy as he listened to the man's story, and after it seemed he didn't have much else to say, he put the wires down and looked straight at McMurphy. "I'm sorry your hands were burned," he began, keeping his voice smooth and face blank. "But you've no idea what it's like to be a _cripple._" Images of Gohan flashed through his mind. It was those memories of his mentor, struggling to survive in a battle where he was sorely outclassed and outnumbered, that kept him fighting, _hoping_ beyond reason. 

 "My teacher, mentor, really, lost his arm in battle. To protect _me,_" he sighed, remembering the incident well. "It was…my first, really. I was useless, ill prepared, and simply a weakness to him…but I tried. Gohan brought me home after giving me his only chance of survival…he managed to make it the entire way before collapsing at my mother's doorstep." Annoyed at the amount of emotion still tied to that ancient memory, he pressed on, trying to ignore the pain he felt at Gohan's loss. "He continued to teach me, without complaint. He adjusted; learned to fend off more than one person better than anybody with less." Looking past McMurphy and into the past, he saw his friend as he remembered him best. "He made one hell of a difference. So don't. Tell. Me." His voice shook and eyes flashed with suppressed pain and anger. "That a cripple can't do a damn thing."

Mack stared, watching the boy with utter surprise and something resembling respect. For that moment, the boy's eyes were completely still, the stars there were as unmoving, unchanging as the ones that hung in the night sky seemed to be. Perfect balance. His eyes were windows into a world where truth meant everything, and where hope could always survive.

 "You only become 'useless' when you stop trying." He murmured, and turned away. The next few minutes were spent in silence as Trunks completed the adjustments in the machine. McMurphy contemplated what the kid had said, mulling over his story as a miser counts his gold. Could one man really make a difference? 

Could one man overcome such an obstacle?

Listening to Trunks, and watching him work, Mack believed that yes, one man could make a difference. 

And yes; he could become something more.

If he tried.

As Trunks began to leave, finished with his work, Mack found his voice, and spoke. "Thank you," he murmured. "And don't sleep too long, okay?" 

Trunks smiled, and nodded.

*****

For the next two weeks, Trunks wandered in and out of patients' rooms in search of machines to fix. He didn't try so much to be silent and unnoticed after the first few, noticing that soldiers of war tended to be on high alert, and with as much energy as he had now, it would be useless to waste it on silencing his movements when his body was in need of repair. So he endured their stares, their questions, and ultimately, their pity, completely unaware of the respect he earned from simply existing on a 'normal' level. He pushed past his weaknesses in order to do good, not indulging in pain or fear as a weaker person might.

Despite his age, he was swiftly becoming one of the most respectable men in the hospital.

So he grew accustomed to concentrating on two things; fixing the machines, and talking to the people they belonged to. More often than not, they were more than willing to confess their ineptitude, or even the crimes they'd committed. What further amazed him was their trust in _him,_ of all people, to lead them justly, as a comrade, and not an inferior.

So he listened. 

And he learned.

What they told him was more than a story; more often than not, it was their _lives_ they put on the line, but if they were waiting for counsel or sympathy, he could never quite be sure. He listened to the stories they told him telling how they'd gotten here, and where they intended to go after they were cleared, and he learned that the majority here would stay for quite some time, and those that did leave were one of two varieties.

They were dead, or they were crippled. 

Like Mack.

It seemed these Rebels didn't believe in fighting fair, or leaving a man able to recover. The men here were very rarely older than thirty, and some were as young as he. They came from all sorts of families, with backgrounds so different from one another's it seemed impossible for them to be united under anything. Sharing only one thing in common, the men were all integrated soldiers and were fighting a war against the Rebels to keep the peace and protect their country. Some, like Mack, weren't soldiers that fought, with all sorts of jobs Trunks could never keep in his head. 

They were proud, but their confidence was dying.

Trunks could remember what that felt like, and so he pushed aside his emotions, and turned to them, tying to help where he could and direct their attention inward. Maybe it wasn't a battle he could win, but it was something he'd damn well try.

The machines were by far the easiest part of his visits, as they required nothing more than a few touchups, and an hour's worth of repair. The soldiers were often less willing to cooperate, shouting at him for a good _long_ while before even letting him get a chance to speak. He was a child, they'd say, barely fit for learning about the world, and not meant to change it. Especially not like this, an older gentleman would shout. He was, to them, a young upstart that would doom the world to suffering and misery. For the most part, Trunks tried not to let the people like that get to him.

And then, wonder of wonders, they'd stop, and wait for him to speak, to tell them that no, they were wrong. He could change things for the better, and so could they. Their furious, ruddy faces would return to a healthier, less stressed color, and their pallor would recede. None would admit outright that they'd even considered his words, but they listened.

And at the time, that's all Trunks could ask.

Then there were those who would accept what he said without ever explaining himself. These 'instant followers' were made of weaker material than the copper he molded, and far less easily put into design. It frustrated him immensely, to be forced to make all the decisions, and tell them where they belonged time and again. They had no vision, and sought only to do the simplest, least difficult things they could. But they believed, and Trunks had to restrain himself and not throttle their too-agreeable necks. 

With these soldiers, he had to readjust their sense of self, and quite forcibly _show_ them that yes, they were worth something. More often than not, this wasn't what they wanted, and he had to fight to get them to accept it. He refused to tell them word for word, but suggestions were not beneath him. 

These soldiers, these young men, would look at him with imploring eyes, shining like the stars to be 'so blessed' by his presence. They'd look up in awe and wonder, unable to contemplate the miracle that had come before them. More than anything, it made Trunks uneasy, upset and forlorn. No one…not these young people, not _any_one…should trust him so.

Betrayal would ultimately come to pass. 

Of course, there were others who fit into neither of these extremes, and sometimes he'd find himself talking to the nurses about similar things. They, too, wanted a savior, it seemed. They wanted a leader. 

Willingly or not, Trunks would become this for them.

All without knowing even the smallest details about their war. He felt…awful. Like a liar, a con man that'd cheated these people out of something truly wonderful and given them some false hope to wonder at, without ever considering their _lives…_

At the end of his original sojourn, with no more machines to fix besides the less accessible wiring between the walls, Trunks resumed his first route, dropping by once again to check up on the machines and test their fluency. Naturally, the patients therein would take this time to reinforce their goals, and he'd learn, purely out of conversational curiosity, what they'd been doing since he last saw them. They talk, and he'd find himself suggesting little things to help their plan work out better, and encourage them to continue their work. 

Their injuries healed, and with some prodding from the demi-Saiyajin, they'd carefully begin to work back up to the level of precision they'd been at before whatever accident they'd encountered. 

Pulling his hand across the wall with some small amount of boredom, Trunks wondered if he should make a third round of check ups and see how everyone was doing _now. _Sighing, more than a little tired of that idea, he decided that three weeks of pep talking was more than enough. It was time to find something _else _to do. 

_So,_ he thought, _what else is there to do in a hospital? If I try to train, I'll have a dozen orderlies breathing down my neck…if I can manage to train at _all. Once more, he sighed. There didn't seem to be much more to do, especially when considering the number of nurses around, all of whom seemed more interested in keeping him 'healthy' than interested. Maybe this was what his mother meant when she mentioned the lack of 'normal' people's ability to understand the Saiyajin need to get stronger.  And that meant training.

Therefore, he was left to wandering the halls whenever he could sneak out, and cheering people up when he needed a good confidence booster himself. 

But there wasn't anyone to do it. 

And the dreams…

They insisted that he was horrible, monstrous, and altogether evil. What could he say to that? 'I'm sorry,' didn't seem to cut it, and guilt didn't do a damn thing. There wasn't anyone…no one but him…to say anything, and he…

_Me?_

_I'm not strong enough._

Frustrated, Trunks wondered how many times a man could sigh before fainting on account of lack of oxygen. The though amused him for some fraction of a moment, and for that, he smiled. He was tired, and the action seemed to stress his muscles too much, but it felt _good_ to smile, to be happy. Marveling at the feeling, he shook his head, in awe of how simple pleasures could make life feel so…worthwhile. 

It was kinda nice.

He stopped at the end of the hallway, noting with blank disinterest that he'd come this way before, and that the only door around was barred, of all things. Not quite wanting to give up on his adventure just yet, he looked around, seeking out the said door. As he half expected, it was smaller than the others, and out of the way, without the little plastic rectangle designating its purpose. 

Common sense told him it was probably a storage closet, or an old treatment room, but instinct led him to believe otherwise. There was something _strange_ about this…this tall, skinny door that _some_one would like him to believe led nowhere. The paint on its front was peeling, and the floor beside it was smudged with imprints made from shoes and small machines, dirt and grime. For something supposedly unused, the markings seemed a little too…fresh. Not when everything else in the hospital was kept as neat as possible, despite the drastic changes in weather and yellowing ceilings. 

No, something wasn't right here.

Going with instinct, Trunks walked slowly across the hall and touched the doorknob. He sensed the heat behind it first; the electronic gizmo that told him someone had gone through an awful lot of work to keep a storage closet unused. There were more traps, keyholes, really, all along the frame as well as a simple lock.

_Strange…_

Over the past few weeks, he'd assembled a sizeable collection of odds and ends from the machines, pocketing the spare parts for later use and marking his passing with more scrap. There wasn't anyplace to keep it, naturally, in a hospital where room was scarce and personal belongings were few in number. So he'd found an empty capsule that'd somehow survived his kamikaze attack, and dumped the contents in there. 

It'd certainly been interesting, to say the least, trying to explain to Mack, and even worse, the lady in charge of the ward, what the noise was coming from. 

Fortunately or not, he kept the thing with him, and easily retrieved a number of metal wires strong enough to get the job done, and set to work. Picking locks certainly hadn't been one of the things his mother _wanted_ him to know, but it hadn't been ruled out of her 'useful information' list quite yet, so she'd taught him the most primitive techniques concerning your basic lock-and-key formation, and left him to figure out the electronically engineered devices, leaving a few around the house to practice on.

So after a few short minutes, he had the first of the locks done with, and in the space of an hour, managed to safely disarm the other 'traps.' Smiling to himself at a job well done, Trunks walked through the portal only to find an ill lit staircase leading to an even darker space below. Not wanting to give himself away quite yet, Trunks forego the use of a small chi ball to illuminate the path, and leaned heavily on the railing to keep from falling. 

The long, narrow staircase led unsurprisingly to yet another door, but _this_ one was far less heavily guarded, and a bit larger, strangely enough. Curious, and more than a little concerned, Trunks opened the door. 

*****

tbc…

The next part will be up soon, with luck.

Thanks be to Samantha for your encouraging response! There's not really much I can say to that, but thank you for saying something. You may have gathered this, but all authors love feedback. How can you improve if you don't know what's wrong, or what people like? I hope I continue to be up to your expectations for character building, and the over all mood of the anime.

Hmm. Just a guess, but I'd say you like Trunks. *Grins* and yep, he's probably like you. You seem nice, and not afraid of sharing your opinion. 

Um. I'll take the "and you write alot" (Grammar note: there's two words in a lot. Just a nice thing to know) as a compliment.

Thank you to Jamie for the interesting insight! It's funny that you should say that the new world reminds you of GW, because that's partially what it's based on (GW is quite possibly one of the best anime series I've seen wonderful art, detailed, realistic characters, cool plot, and completely awe inspiring sub plots). I tend to write about what I'm familiar with, so GW naturally came into play. It's cool that somebody noticed.

Depressing is a good thing, right? *Wonders* eh, or not… 

Point? *Smiles* that same question could be asked about the entire story: what is the point? The 'More or less' answer: to have Trunks grow into a mature young man with realistic goals, and understand that he's not the only one carrying the weight of the universe. 

**In response to gigi:**

Thank you for sharing your opinion. I always value a new perspective, although I must admit, I've honestly no idea where you're coming from. Though I've nothing against the concept, this story has nothing to do with YAOI. I'd like to point out that "yaoi" is not a word; it's an acronym which stands for "yama nashi, ochi nashi, imi nashi." This translates to "No peak, no point, no meaning." In Japan, this phrase is used to describe the process of getting _any_ two characters together in a sexual manner. These characters aren't exclusively male, per se, but they can be. In America, PWP (plot? What plot?) would be the equivalence. In any case, 'yaoi' in America has come to mean sexual relations between two (or more, I suppose…) guys. Shonen ai is the term most Americans use to express less explicit relationships where the two boys (usually they're young) hold hands, possibly kiss, and display fluff and nothing else. The translation is more along the lines of 'boy's love' which suggests a more innocent relationship.

I've not intentionally put any shonen ai hints in the chapters, so as I said, I've no idea where you're coming from. There obviously aren't any YAOI scenes, since there aren't any sex scenes within the context. 

In my brother's words: "If you're reading YAOI into the story, that's your problem." 

If you feel that one particular section suggests a sexual relationship, feel free to point it out, and I'll revise it. This is NOT A ROMANCE FIC, so I don't want to imply anything. I'm sorry for those of you who want it to be, but I've no interest whatsoever in writing romance stories as of now.

If you have any questions, comments, or concerns, contact me.

Reviews, critiques, and long rants are always appreciated.


	9. Book II: Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **Dragon Ball Z and all related characters are copy right of their respected owners. This means I don't own them, never will own them, and a few other minor details like that. I'm making no profit off this whatsoever. The original characters, the content, and the overall idea, however, are all of my creation.

**Warnings: **violence (I think…). Some curse words. Small bits of angst, and a hefty bit of foreshadowing. NO ROMANCE. Thank you.

**Chapter 3**

The onslaught assaulting his ears seemed unbelievable. One moment, he was walking down a flight of stairs, clinging to a rail so fragile he thought it might break. And the next? He opened a door, only to be greeted by chaos so awesomely loud he could barely see. Having only shared the company of one or two sick men at a time, Trunks was altogether unprepared for this tumult, with machines going about their business without a care in the world, and men shouting orders, suggestions or lewd jokes over the noise. 

A Saiyajin, even under the worst circumstances, has better senses than your average human, hearing not being the least of them. Though his hearing wasn't quite up to Piccolo's standards, he could pick up much of the interference far better than anyone else might. 

Trunks was in agony. The bright light flooded his eyes with the most irritating persistency he'd seen in a long while, seeming much more painful and potent than one of Gohan's Kamehameha waves, and with a much longer lifespan. On top of the general hubbub below, this place was pure misery.

_What the hell is this place? _He wondered, trying to keep his feet. _Ugh. I think I'm going to die…_ he moaned silently, wishing at that instant that he'd _not_ been blessed with the unique abilities he possessed. 

Forcing his eyes to adjust took more than a little doing, and even then, his senses were so accustomed to the relative silence of the hospital he couldn't process much more than the obvious. He observed the entire scene from a platform a good distance from the ground, above the majority of the groundwork, but below several 'decks' containing more of the same. All around him, people went about their business, working on machines just barely taller than the people maintaining them. The entire atmosphere stank of fuel, sweat and dirt; the only things even remotely clean were the pieces the men and women worked on. The machines, shaped to resemble the human figure, were like suits of armor from the Samurai ages, yet more streamlined and precise than a single man could ever be, if the interior said anything about its performance. 

Intrigued, Trunks drew closer, walking down a flight of stairs and sidestepping various pieces of equipment used in the repair of these ingenious suits. The exterior seemed to be designed for multi purposes, with hand-to-hand combat being one of the top priorities in some, speed for others, and agility for all. As a scientist, Trunks could see little point in having an aesthetically pleasing physique for a weapon of mass destruction, but when men piloted such things, such a design would be almost necessary if he wanted to inspire great things. 

The machines were sexless, oddly enough, not strictly male or female, but they varied in height as people did, seemingly designed for one person and _one_ person alone. This certainly wasn't something you could steal successfully without knowing a thing or two about the person inside. 

If he recalled correctly, and these were the fabled 'suits' his fellow patients talked about, the Rebels _did_ steal these magnificent things, and they used them successfully, to greater or lesser degrees. 'They worked with one another, the way _we _can't,' Mack would say, using their fewer numbers to a greater extent than the Allies could, attacking their flanks and disarming their soldiers whenever they could. Considering their limited supplies and funds, they did quite an alarming bit of sabotage.

 "Hey, watch it! I'm trying to _move, _here!" someone shouted, coming very close to popping his eardrums. Trunks winced, scanning the pieces of machinery as he took in the sight. The person, a girl, he thought, fidgeted impatiently behind him, not noticing or not caring about his interest. "Hell_o!_" she griped, fixing her grip on what he assumed was a fairly large piece of equipment. Naturally, he couldn't be for certain, as she was a few feet behind him, but he could guess.

 "Wow," he breathed. Interest lit his eyes, and unknowingly he began to verbally analyze what he saw before him, guessing at the mechanical systems within the suits and theorizing what their purposes were. He hadn't seen something this unique in ages, barring the androids. The androids' interiors were certainly complex, but he found them to be more demented, scary as hell things that shouldn't hold one's interest for long. That it took three knowledgeable geniuses to fix one minor systems error only furthered his belief that one would have to be criminally insane to come up with something that _complicated_. 

The girl laughed, but her laughter was short lived, and it still carried a note of irritation. "You new to the team?" she wondered, still amused. "I couldn't understand a _word _of that crap you just said, an' I been workin' here for years!" she laughed again, this time with more than a bit of scorn. "Yeah, it's big and amazing and all, but _listen_, kid, get out o' my way before I hit you over the head with my _leg_!" 

Trunks grinned sheepishly, apologizing as he moved aside. The girl was tall, skinny and muscular enough to handle what was given her, and interestingly enough, they'd given her a _leg, _and not some box of tools as he'd first suspected. Her black hair was tied neatly out of the way with a red bandanna, but the soot, oil streaks and other smudges associated with mechanical repair did nothing to hide her stunning complexion. With skin the color of bronze highlighted with molten honey, she seemed to glow with a light of her own. In comparison, her features were bland and ill suited. Her black eyes narrowed at the sight of him, and she frowned, trying to gauge his purpose here.

 "Who the hell are you?" she demanded. "You're wearin' hospital clothes, mister, and that mean you sure as hell don't belong _here!_" shifting the leg to a more comfortable position, she glared mightily at him, without the slightest trace of sympathy or trust. For once, Trunks found it exhilarating to be _doubted,_ and not followed blindly as if he were some sort of godsend. He smiled. "What the hell happened to you, how did you get in here, and what in God's name are you trying to do!" the string of questions were more orders than anything.

 "Uh," he started. _Great. Yet another brilliant response…_

 "Don't give me none of that!" 

Opening his mouth to try again, Trunks wondered vaguely what he _should _say, and what she expected. As he processed her questions, he shifted uneasily, wishing she'd get on with her business and leave him alone. "My name is Trunks." He began, wishing he'd taken the time to get a drink of water. 

Taking one menacing step closer, she seemed to forget her heavy burden in sight of a new conquest. "Listen, _buddy, _I got a job to do, and you're in my way. As far as I'm concerned, you're a spy, and that means I skewer you with this here leg and hang you up from the closest railing by your own entrails!" She looked mad enough to spew fire, and annoyed enough to follow through with any threats she gave. 

 "I came down the stairs--"

 "_Which_ stairs?" she shouted, shaking a stray piece of hair from her face. Somehow it'd escaped the bandanna, despite the odds. 

 "Uh, those stairs." He grimaced, wishing she weren't quite so authoritative and _loud. _It was bad enough he had to endure this environment, but with the added bonus of someone screaming at him, it was nearly unbearable. "The door was unlocked, and I--"

She seemed to grow in size as she edged closer, forcing Trunks to retreat or be further deafened. "So you decided to do some exploring, huh hot shot?" 

Somewhere below him, a group of people laughed, settling around a single machine that seemed half finished and in ill repair. They'd stopped working all of a sudden, as if they'd just realized something of great importance. By their attitudes, they were close friends all, joking along with one another as they got their work done, easily trading one job for another with the skill and patience of pros. "Hey, Mari! Get your ass down here and leave the kid alone!" one called, doubtless amused at her antics. 

Mari fumed. "I'm _busy_, Carlos!"she called, oblivious to their laughter. 

Rolling his eyes, Carlos dropped his pliers and pulled off his gloves, making his way towards the pair at a slow, unhurried pace. He seemed more than willing to have them wait, but Mari apparently had other plans. Ready to knock him into the nearest boiler, she made as if to swing the heavy leg she carried just as Carlos entered the scene. 

 "Woah there little pony," he cautioned, grinning from ear to ear. "If you don't watch it, someone's gonna get hurt!" he was a big man, tall, wide and muscular, with the burly arms of a blacksmith and a bushy mustache to match. His dark eyes twinkled with amusement as he took in the sight, and though his skin mirrored Mari's, it seemed more an effect of prolonged exposure to open flame than anything else. He was a weathered man, probably younger than he looked, and wrinkled deeply. He winked. "Probably me, and you know how possessive I am about my hide," looking over his shoulder, he tipped his hat to their friends and cohorts in crime, oblivious to Mari's petrifying glare. 

On her part, Mari was more than a little miffed. "He's a _spy!_" she accused, paying no attention to the stares they were attracting, or not caring in the least if she did notice. 

Carlos looked dubious. "And where do you get off saying that? He's wearing _our_ hospital clothes, girl!" he laughed, looking from Mari to Trunks to the group waiting in amusement below them, more than satisfied with that answer. 

 "So what! He ain't supposed to be down here!" she insisted, stomping her foot on the wire ground that upheld them. Trunks looked uneasy, wondering how he'd gotten into this mess to begin with. 

 "Isn't. 'Ain't' isn't a word, Mari," Carlos grinned teasingly, pulling her hair gently. "Hmm. If that's such a problem, guess we should go get one of our superiors, huh? They'd definitely know how to--"

 "And what might be the problem?" someone asked from behind. Knowing his luck, Trunks was willing to bet it was some authoritative, godlike figure here to doom him an eternity in the hospital ward. He sighed, frustrated. All this, for a little bored exploration? 

Carlos paled somewhat, being in the position to see exactly who addressed them. He smiled easily, nonetheless, willingly going along with the flow of events. Before he could open his mouth, sharp-tongued Mari began to relate the events. "He's a spy." She said, quite simply, jerking her thumb in Trunks' direction. "He _claims_ to be from the hospital ward, but I know better! Nobody in the damn world leaves that door unlocked, and _he_ says he just walked on through--" she probably would have carried on for some time, but Trunks blocked her out long before she got to the point, and made his way to the nearest suit. 

He'd been observing them from afar for a little while now, but it was one thing to see it, and another to _see_ how everything was put together. He smiled in spite of himself, and stooped low to pick up a scrap of wire. Circling the suit, he looked at the generic design for a few moments, searching for anything that might be familiar or need improving. He found quite a few similarities in structure between this and parts of the androids basic makeup, but upon closer inspection, it was much simpler than he'd been led to believe. Sighing in relief, he noted the circuits that'd been shorted, and the microchips embedded in the thick, metallic armor. Interested, he leaned closer, absently repairing the outs with his left hand while examining the make of the chips.

They were machine made, which allowed more room for mistakes and mass-produced errors than anything he or his mother would ever design. In a chip made by another machine programmed specifically to make _one_ design, the scientist gave up the possibility of redoing the entire thing, improving from the first to the next. Because human error was such a major contribution to the chips ultimate performance, it had to be checked over again and again, with careful attention to detail each time. While time consuming, this allowed for better results, and far less critical inaccuracies than other machines.

Granted, he'd only seen this method between himself and his mother, but it seemed a far more precise way of producing machines. This held true unless, of course, you needed lots of them, and fast. He suspected this was the main reason for the faulty production, and sighed. Every machine produced had the exact same error, then…leaving them open and vulnerable in a place where they ought to pay closest attention.

This little chip, centered in the human equivalence of the stomach, was responsible for the machine's ability to promote defense. Without it, a miniature force field couldn't be produced, and no long distance radio waves would be accepted. _In an army, communication should be the most important thing, _Trunks reasoned, _but they don't seem to care-- or maybe they don't notice --the significance of their mistake…why is that?_

The force field generated behind the suit would be significantly weaker than the front, and if the circuitry told him anything, there would be gaping holes between the suit's joints, especially the arms. Undoubtedly the pilot was probably expected to rely more on offensive tactics than defensive, but without a weapon, the pilot would be near helpless inside, and the level of energy leaking through to the pilot would be near catastrophic if they were hit too many times. 

Feeling a bit sick at what kind of injuries would result, Trunks backed away, examining the reaction time and reflexes, trying to shove the images provoked out of his mind. Here, too, there were flaws, but these were minor in comparison. Whoever designed the suits must have been dominantly left handed, for the difference between the right and left limbs was amazingly apparent. Attacking from the right would leave the unfortunate pilot at a disadvantage, being unable to block at the expected rate…especially if that pilot were primarily accustomed to relying on that hand.  

There were, however, quite a few amazing technologies bound together in this one machine, and despite the flaws, he couldn't get over how intricate, how _complex_ the entire suit was. Whoever had designed these suits wasn't far behind Dr. Gero… fortunately or not, these suits had no will power of their own, nor were they built off living tissue. 

_This will definitely be more interesting than fixing the machines upstairs…_

 "Hey! What are you _doing_?" Mari shouted, finally cutting through his concentration. "I've been trying to get your attention for three minutes!" she complained, shaking the leg at him. Trunks blinked, about to reply when two notably larger men took him by the arms, lifting him forcibly up the stairs. 

The superior seemed moderately concerned, while the technicians were livid, practically pulling his arms out as they carried him. Fighting the urge to panic, Trunks quelled his need to strike out at his oppressors, knowing instinctively that his energy _still_ wasn't quite as high as it could be.

Within a few minutes, he was back up the narrow flight of stairs and shoved in a room he'd known to be empty this entire trip. About ready to correct them on their mistake, _his_ room was down the hall, three doors to the left, Trunks wisely held his tongue as everyone involved filed in. 

He collapsed on the bed like a broken doll, unable to move after putting so much energy into remaining calm and _getting_ to the room to begin with. Trunks sighed, and closed his eyes, not ready to be quizzed over his information and taxed beyond reason by pointless questions.

 "Trunks Briefs, you say your name is?" the superior asked gently, his voice low and authoritative even now. How he managed to be heard over the din below, Trunks wasn't sure; he couldn't imagine the man speaking above that, much less shouting. Trunks nodded. "I see. You know, Trunks, we haven't been able to locate any files on you, none in the least. Not even," he leaned closer. "a report on you, or your squadron, flying over to the area we picked you up in." he cleared his throat. "What's to make us believe Mari's claims? Who's to say you _aren't_ a spy?"

Trunks shrugged. "I'm not a spy." He sighed, wishing he could sit up, or even open his _eyes. _"I didn't mean to come here…I fell…"

The superior nodded. Trunks stifled the urge to groan; he was back to hearing motions again. "And where did you fall _from, _Mister Briefs?" he inquired.

Frowning, Trunks wondered about that. "The sky." He suggested. "I _don't remember, _all right? The only thing I can recall about this whole mess is _falling._" He fumed, and somehow pooled enough energy together to sit up and meet the commander's gaze. "I don't know a damn thing about this war, much less why I'm here. You can fucking kill me for all I care." Pain flashed across his face, dulling his eyes. Within them, the stars seemed to hold their breath. "I deserve to die anyway." 

It was a coward's behavior he exhibited today, but he couldn't find it in him to care. No one he cared about was here to witness it. Not Goku. Not his mother.

Not Vegeta.

_Certainly not them. You _killed_ them, remember?_

_Oh, shut up…_

 "What were you trying to do to McCoy's suit?"

Trunks stared. "Wha?" no trace of recognition could be found. "What's a suit?"

Mari snorted. "The thing you were trying to sabotage, you nut case!" she looked quite willing to rant for some time, but fortunately or not, Carlos and their superior stopped her from going on. 

Trunks lifted an eyebrow. "Oh." He said simply. "That thing."

When it became apparent he didn't know anything else, the attention shifted to Mari and Carlos, leaving Trunks to sit and stare at that Kami forsaken ceiling yet _again_. He was really starting to hate that thing. 

Mulling over the design in his head, Trunks leaned over and snatched a pad of paper and pencil from the dresser, intent on fixing the mistakes he'd seen before he forgot. Hopefully, someone would take interest in them and start to correct it before too many more casualties were reached. 

Half listening to the conversations going on around him, Trunks began to detail the outline of the 'heart,' so to speak, and highlighted the areas that could use improvement. Brainstorming a few ways to correct these errors, Trunks mentally started calculating the equations the system would function around, wondering if the reaction time was a symptom of the heart's ineptitude or if it was an altogether unrelated mistake. Murmuring quietly to himself, he related a few of the theories his mother worked around whenever she was stumped, hoping to find a solution in something they'd rectified long ago.

Frowning, Trunks didn't notice that the conversations around him had ceased, and that all eyes were on him. Pursing his lips, he went through the equations the time machine was based on, wondering if the 'fabric' between realities was anything like the layers in the world, and how this could be manipulated to create a shield that could, quite possibly, keep the suit safely out of reach. Deciding that would lead to a few too many health problems, Trunks dropped the idea, and started brainstorming possibilities once again.

A few minutes into this, he finally realized the movement around him had stopped, and looked up. Something akin to fear lingered in their eyes, and not the least of their emotions was precisely that, but there was amazement, respect, and interest to go along with it.

Trunks fidgeted. "What?" he asked. 

Carlos smiled. "Nothing, kid. Don't worry about it." His smile stretched into a grin as he looked at Mari, and then at the commander. "So, you can't remember squat about anything 'cept Science, huh?" he laughed. "Well, that suits me just fine, kid."

Trunks blinked, and glanced uneasily from one person to the next. "I'm _not_ a spy." He insisted.

The superior chuckled. "Indeed, what kind of spy would so freely give away invaluable information like that?" he wondered. "If, that is, it's correct."

Mari nodded, amazement shining clearly in her black eyes. "No shit, Sherlock." She shrugged. "Leave me outta this. I got work to do." She held up her hands in defeat and looked at the commander. "Sir?" he nodded. She grinned, and made her way out of the room.

Trunks sighed, and wished he had the privilege of leaving.

Fortunately or not, he had quite a bit of questioning to put up with before that could happen. _Woe is the life of a genius, _as Bulma would say, _and even _more_ woe upon ye who interrupt a genius at work._

*****

For the next few days, he spent the majority of his time in bed, sketching ideas and possible solutions on his pad of notebook paper, intent on keeping detailed outlines of any and all ideas he came up with. The second and third day he came up with reasons for why all the concepts he'd been toying with _wouldn't_ work, and possible corrections to those problems if he felt it had some amount of merit. Someone would wander into his new room to 'check' on him every hour or so, and see if he needed anything. Mostly they were there to bother him, as he saw it, and interrupt his chain of thoughts.

Several times a scientist from downstairs would attempt to take his notebook away and give him another to work on, but being a child of war and destruction, Trunks was well accustomed to writing small and taking advantage of every available asset. So far, this notebook could last him several weeks, if not months. "Besides," he'd say, "I like to go back over what I've already come up with every once in a while and make some modifications," he would grin, "to, you know, make sure everything's up to the same standards." 

The response was more often than not a muttered sentence of apology and a few annoyed grunts. 

That never ceased to amuse Trunks.

After a few days of being confined to his bed, the kid was getting tired of interruptions, and threatened the first person to open his door with a very slow, painful death. "Starting with the fingers," he muttered.

Amused laughter met that remark. He looked up in surprise; only to find that his visitor today was the level headed brother of Mari's, Carlos. "You do that, little guy," he could practically sense the man's grin. "I've been sent to 'check up' on you and attempt to part you from that 'revolutionizing' notebook of yours. You done yet?"

Trunks smiled, and shook his head. "No." 

He looked up at Carlos' smiling face, taking in the dirt-smudged face and deeply wrinkled lines etched within from long years of suffering, pain and determination. There were laugh lines all across his face, lining his features with a sense of hope. Here was a remarkable man, if he'd ever met one. Something about him reminded Trunks of Gohan, with all his traits, right down to the distinctive hunger for knowledge, and heart of gold. He was the older brother Trunks had never had, and always wished for.

 "Well then, little guy, guess that means I ought to be goin', and leave you to your work." He winked. "Don't wanna be murdered horribly after all that's goin' on." With that, he turned to leave. "Take care of yourself, now,"

Trunks hesitated. "Wait," he called, just as the door clicked into place. He sighed, and murmured quietly to himself. _I just wanna know…how's life going?_ He smiled wearily, and leaned back against the wall.

_Guess I won't know until I get back into it…_

*****

Knowing his lineage, and how stubborn both his mother and father could be, Trunks eventually shoved aside his patience and thought for detail, and left the brainstorming for another day, intent on _doing _something before his mind exploded. He hadn't done that many calculations since he graduated his mother's 'science and math course for the growing mind.' Mostly that 'course' included everything from obscure divisions of calculus to the very basic math skills, all incorporated in such a way that even a genius would have to think about what he or she did. 

When she wanted to, Bulma could make _everything_ difficult, and when teaching her son about the wide world of science, that's precisely what she did.

They'd never had enough supplies for true 'trial and error' but upon occasion they'd have scrap metals and wiring enough to create the most basic devices to demonstrate such-and-such laws without interference. Later, they'd transform those into more complicated things, and eventually, although he didn't know it at the time, the basics for his mother's beloved time traveling machine. 

Nothing was ever wasted, least of all the opportunity to live and grow from any experience. 

A guard of sorts had been posted at the door leading to the building area, Trunks noted, and probably one before the main entrance as well. He grinned to himself. _Suppose they didn't want any more surprise inspections from hospital patients…_

 "Excuse me," he hailed the guard. "I'd like to test a few of these designs, if you don't mind, and get a head start on--"

 "Name, sir?" the guard nearly shouted. Trunks winced, and wondered why young military people felt the need to yell like that.

Amused, but a bit annoyed at the ringing in his ears, he nodded. "Trunks Briefs." 

 "The nature of your visit, sir?" 

 "Uh, working on a few experimental designs."

The guard withdrew some sort of hand held computer, and easily typed in a few codes. "One moment." A few minutes later, the guard nodded, pressed a few more buttons, and a small card was printed, with Trunks' photo, name, and 'rank.' He was amused to find there was a time limit to this card's potency, and a few restrictions noted. "You have until 1900, sir." 

 "Thank you…I think…"

 "I'm required to point out to you, sir, that you're to remain in quadrant 16A and keep to the restricted area. No items being tested upon are to leave the RA," Trunks assumed that was the term for 'restricted area,' and nodded, "and no outside tools are to be come into the RA. You will be searched going into and coming out of the area, so I advise you leave any and all weapons you might have upon your person behind. With all due respect, sir, that includes your notebook, sir."

 "Uh." Trunks replied, a bit overwhelmed by the strict, almost monotone way the soldier relayed all this information. Excluding the bit about the notebook, the man sounded almost exactly like one of the machines his Grandfather had around Capsule Corps. "Sure. Can you hold on to it for me?" 

The question was barely out of his mouth when the soldier made his response. "No, sir! All weapons, tools and other things of possible destructive nature are to be left in the neutral zone, sir!" he hesitated. "Again, with all due respect, sir, your notebook could be taken, sir. I suggest you leave it behind, sir." 

Trunks nodded dazedly, and wondered at the excessive 'sir-ing' the soldier exhibited. Reflecting on that, Trunks smiled, remembering that most warriors he'd met were always a bit wary of scientific people like his mother and naturally himself. "Thank you for the advice," he murmured, and tucked the notebook in what all the nurses referred to as the status box outside his door, behind the doctor's notes and charts 'for his health.' Knowing that only the nurses and doctors leafed through it, and then only when they needed to see him as a patient, he felt safe enough leaving it there.

The guard let him through without another word, aside from a quiet, "Good luck, sir," and Trunks was left to his thoughts as he traveled down the stairway yet again. This time, however, it was better lit, and as he suspected, there was another guard bellow. She was far less helpful than the one upstairs, however, and a bit ill tempered at being left 'in the dark, doing useless guard duty.' 

Downstairs, things were pretty much the way he remembered them, loud, bright, and an intolerable mess of dirt, grime and machinery. Today, however, he had a purpose, and the proper paperwork to get him past any suspicious mechanics walking around with mechanical legs on their shoulders.

Weaving in and out of work sites, he occasionally stopped for directions on the way to the RA and the neutral zone, finding that it was generally easier to ask an old veteran than to wander around lost for valuable amounts of time. 

With that in mind, he found his way about quite easily, and made it through the checking stations with little more than a quick identification, or ID, as the soldiers would say, check. His mother had always told him to be polite to authority figures as a child. "Mostly," she'd add, grinning cheekily, "So they can't stop you for no reason whatsoever, and you can get on with your business. Besides, a bit of sweet talking can get a girl," seeing his expression, she'd quickly add, "or boy where they wanna go in no time at all." With that in mind, he spoke up only when appropriate, kept his phrases short and polite, and offered little by way of conversation, and got through in record timing. 

The neutral zone, he found, was in reality little more than a place to keep your things, right on down to your clothes and shoes. The people who performed the quick, thorough searches kept the ID cards until you were ready to leave. Everything else was shoved in cubbies, and everyone, men and women alike, were given one piece suits to change into. Blushing a little bit, Trunks did as everyone else, changing out of his hospital clothes and into the RA scientist outfits as soon as he was given one, leaving his clothes and slippers behind with the guards. In addition, he was given a thick pair of safety goggles, a small flashlight, and informed that he could find any materials he needed in the supply bins.

Mechanics like Mari or Carlos in the RA were given suits of black, and scientists like himself were dressed in white, with guards in green and ranking officers in blue. The suits were nothing like he'd expect; they were flexible, tight fitting, and outlined the body beneath with pinpoint accuracy except in the most private of areas. It was easy enough to reach any kind of position, without the added friction normal clothes offered. Indeed, they reminded him of the unique suits he and his father wore while fighting Cell, but without the plate armor.

The RA itself was isolated. Thick, thick walls capable of withstanding internal and external explosions ringed the entire area, with the most advanced safety precautions all around. Here, they expected as many explosions as humanly possible, and they prepared for all kinds. Only the floor was white, and due to the large amounts of explosions and other mechanical accidents going on around it, it was mostly gray, with bits of white showing beneath the stains. The walls probably were once white in color, but the same explosions that marred the floor damaged the walls' paint job much more noticeably. Trunks smiled, noting the supply bins and number of people running from one place to another, and the sheer amount of 'unfixables' propped up against walls, on tables, and tossed carelessly about the floor in what could only be described as a mess.

This was going to be fun.

*****

For the next few weeks, Trunks made it part of his agenda to go downstairs for short periods of time and work on the ever growing amount of suits to repair, making adjustments and notes in the famed notebook when he wasn't populating the RA. He slept much, ate even more, and worked himself nearly to death for as long as possible, making everything from the most mundane adjustments to the most complicated, back breaking additions anyone had seen yet. Upon request, he'd gotten Mari, Carlos and their group of friends to help him with the workload, getting their expert opinions while chatting about everything from families to adventures, cats and dogs, and food. 

It was good to have friends about, and their laughter eased his spirit more than any counseling could have. Slowly, he began to realize the time and place for mourning, and what good he'd brought about by making sacrifices no one, by any rights, god given or not, could demand. But someone could _ask_, and in his heart, Trunks knew he'd make the same decision all over again if he could save lives, especially if those lives included people like these.

So together, they began fixing the machines, upgrading and replacing, finishing and rebuilding all sorts of suits, making each one better than the last, but just _under_ what Trunks expected. The group of friends found him exhilarating to work with, pushing them to their limits and beyond the way they thought_ no one_ could do. With patience and humility, he reminded them of their flaws and took to complimenting each of their accomplishments while simultaneously suggesting ways they could make it more efficient the next go around.

He was, as always, allowed downstairs for what he deemed short periods of time, working tirelessly alongside his friends until pushed upstairs yet again. For a while, he thought of nothing but the machines, but as time went by, he began to notice less and less the pieces of art they worked with, and began to take note of the different faces around him. Time and time again, pilots would come in and out of the battlefield, and when they entered Trunks' line of sight, they were immediately recognizable by the sheer amount of weight they seemed to carry on their shoulders, and the way they carried themselves. No pilot was ever as quick paced or reckless as the mechanics, and they walked with purpose, pride and dignity, or they walked without direction in a dazed slump, dragging their feet as if they simply weighed too much to work with. 

When he asked for a pilot, time and time again he'd be almost _casually _informed of their passing, and the tired ease the news was delivered with tore his heart. War and destruction…all they brought was pain, fear and death. Nothing good could ever come from it.

The pilots, he'd find, were more often than not on the front lines, and their survival rate was alarmingly low. If they stayed alive for more than a few months, they were considered good material, and those alive after years of fighting were promoted to officers, and removed from the front lines and pushed into even _more_ dangerous battles on different layouts. 

He made it his business to get to know the pilots, young and old, and talk to them, as he had with the patients in the hospital. The fellows he spoke with were said to have amazing luck, and first time pilots were known to go to Trunks, of all people, for words of advice, much like the way they'd go to old war veterans for battle techniques. 

Every man he would talk to would leave with the same question, and none of them could fully _answer_ what he asked. "Why?" that was his question. "Why do we fight this war, and what is it _really_ about?"

Mary, one of the first pilots he'd actually met, and a good friend of his, seemed a bit puzzled by his questions. "What do you mean, _'why?'_ We fight because it's our duty, Trunks, you know that," she smiled easily, her blue eyes shining beneath a crown of short cropped red hair. 

Trunks smiled at her, knowing without a doubt that she would answer him truly. "It may be your duty to defend, Mer," not long after meeting her and experiencing her altogether merry behavior in the face of danger, he dubbed her 'Merry,' or Mer, for short. "But what are we fighting for?"

 "What am _I _fighting for, you mean. Until you get your wings again, Trunks, you're not to do any actual fighting," she reminded him, rolling her eyes in amusement. 

Ignoring that statement, Trunks pushed on. "You tell me the Rebels threaten the peace, and attack our bases. I know this, because I've seen it." She sobered, looking into his eyes, watching the stars fall as he continued, fire lighting within those shining obsidian pools and pride beginning to live again within their depths. He'd been through a lot, everyone knew, but how much, none could tell. Looking at his pale and slight form, she knew it must have been significant, for such a strong soul as his could not be easily marred. "But have you ever given a thought as to _why _they're fighting?" he asked quietly, motioning for her to hand him a screwdriver. 

 "I--" she stumbled, looking flustered. Eager to distract both of them, she handed him the tool in question, and floundered, searching for the right thing to say. "They claim to want peace, but how can they with…?" she began, and trailed off. _With warfare, _she was going to say, but that would be hypocritical. They fought for peace, to preserve the world. "I mean, they're just…" she stopped. In truth, she knew nothing about their motives, or their hopes and dreams as a community. "They're _rebels._" She finally decided. 

Trunks smiled, patching up her machine as he looked up. "You know, they call us demons." He replied, almost cheerfully. She looked aghast. "It's all in perspective, Mer. What we consider important, like the government, they may very well consider corrupt."

She bit her lip, not quite sure what he was after. "We fight for peace." She began, voicing her earlier thoughts. "To preserve the world and create a…" she stumbled again. "To create a better era…something our descendents will be proud of and…something good." 

Raising an eyebrow, Trunks just smiled. "So we're fighting fire with fire, hmm?" he swiftly disabled one automatic weapon, and began fine tuning its mechanisms. "So what happens if our fire power gets out of control, and traps everyone within?" 

Mary looked down. "I don't know."

 "They're just people, Mer. All of them have hopes and dreams…families. They fight for a reason. Even if we don't know what it is, it's there…" he sighed. "Y'know, someone told me once, a long time ago," thinking of his mother, and her sad blue eyes, he continued, "that wars are caused because of lack of communication. I didn't believe them at the time, but…" he shrugged. "Looking at this, I have to wonder: could there be a better way?" he flipped the panel revealing her suit's interior closed, and met her gaze evenly. "Maybe all our problems could be solved with something as simple as what we're doing now."

Mary raised an eyebrow now, unconvinced. "Fixing suits?"

Trunks laughed. "Talking, Mer. _Talking._" 

Variations of this conversation continued with people of all levels, from raw beginners to trained, veteran officers. Of course, he'd heard the most common excuses everywhere: they were putting the rebels in their place, and protecting the world to promote peace, but there were no real answers. Not a one of them knew why the Rebels attacked, nor understood why it was their duty to fight them. But the enemy slowly became real in each fighter's mind, and very few pilots would ever kill without mercy. They began to show compassion, and grow as people, learning the ways of warriors rather than that of pilots meant solely to kill or be killed.

And slowly, they would become something more.

Trunks, on the other hand, was left with questions to which he had no answers, and nothing he said or others told him could ease his conscience. This war was _not_ just, nor was it right. But neither was the other side, the Rebels, solely good. What could he do, but continue?

It seemed fate had quite a bit in store for him, and with no choices left but going forward, he dreaded the day that would bring him face to face with all that he feared.

*****

tbc…

The next chapter should be up relatively soon. I'm not making any promises, however.

  
In light of (personal) recent events, I'm going to be trying to finish this story by March 7th.  This is mostly for my convenience, so that means that as soon as I finish a chapter, it'll be uploaded a day or so afterwards, giving time for Meghan to edit and Taise to bother me about details.

Thanks be to Raina, for your insightful comments! *Grins* I'm not sure if the high angst is a good thing or not, but one way or another, some things will be resolved. It's nice to know if I'm carrying something through, even if it's not the plot. *Winks* broken promise isn't good, ya know.

*Groans* ugh…you're talking about that one chapter I didn't edit, aren't you? *Winces* for one thing, it's not been checked over for character interaction, development or believability. And there's too much wrong, so I don't wanna fix it…I'll keep your comments in mind when/if I go back and fix that. Girlishy romantic desires, huh? *Blinks* wouldn't know much about the girlishy stuff (seeing as I'm a boy…) but I was more or less basing her off Relena Peacecraft from GW. Only in a Lady Une type position…(Sorry if you don't know what the heck I'm talking about…GW, as mentioned before, is one of my favorite anime shows)

*Grins* poor me. *Laughs* you can say that again…you seem to have picked up well on the chara differences, so I'm not so sure about what you mean by "can't tell the difference." Meghan and Taise read over my shoulder as I write for grammatical stuff, so by 'editing' I mean fine tuning. You don't know how many times I've been told to rewrite entire sections just because it doesn't sound right…that's about when I throw something at Me-chan.

I'm writing as much as I can. *Grins* there's only four or five chapters left for me to write, so the end is in sight. Hopefully. Unless I come across an unexpected side-turn…then it could be more. Me (a.k.a. Me-chan or Meghan) is talking about what we've dubbed "Horrifyingly Sad." It doesn't have a beginning yet because I've been avoiding it for months now…as soon as it reaches two or three or four chapters, then I'll post it. 

*Not sure what to say to the "BOO" bit* uh. Thanks for the support? *Grins* I talk too much…anyways, sorry for the long bit of response. I haven't quite figured out when to stop writing… 

Thank you, Cat's Meow! (I like your name…) compliments are always cool…*Beams* although that usually means I get all the _bad_ stuff I do rubbed in my face by my brother or Me-chan…*rolls eyes affectionately* they don't "want me to get a bloated ego." (Not to be confused with the waffle thing…) *Smiles* details bring worlds to life…that's my opinion, anyways. 

Questions, comments, critiques, rants and such are always welcome. I can't get any better if you don't tell me what's wrong.


	10. Book II: Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** DBZ is not mine.

**Warnings:** Violence. Angst. Confusion due to dream sequence(s?). Possibly OoC on Bulma's part. 

Losing Innocence

by Taes

**Chapter 4**

"Okay, sweetie," a rather irate Bulma began. "Let's try this again…" for the fourth time in less than an hour, the hand held computer, specifically a programming pen used for detailing the information in computer chips, had attempted to save her progress. Unfortunately for Bulma, this meant it was trying to access drives no longer accessible, seeing that she'd programmed the pen with her _other_ computer, and when it tried to save the pattern she'd used, problems insured. "Mommy's gonna have to remove that 'automatic save' option or we're going to be in a bit of a mess…" she murmured to her small son.

Trunks, a 'big boy' of five years, nodded solemnly. "Okay…do you want _me_ to do it?" he asked helpfully.

Bulma smiled. "Sure, sweet heart. Okies then, let's go this way…" picking him up, she led him _and_ the misbehaving programming pen to the other side of the room, and easily connected the computer to the pen. "Okay, here's what you do…" a few minutes later, 'Trunks' fixed the pen under Bulma's tutelage, and the two of them were _finally_ able to get back to work.

 "Okay, since you're my _big_ helper now, you can help me with my _science experiment!" _she grinned. "Won't that be fun?" Trunks, ever glad to help his mother with _grown up_ stuff, nodded happily. 

In one hand, she held the programmer, a pen Trunks knew to be very dangerous, and in the other, she held a needle and thread. Looking up at her, he knew she was _much_ bigger than he, and even though he was a big boy, he had lots of growing to do. In comparison, his hands were _very_ small, and he didn't know so very much about science as she. 

Looking down now, Trunks' eyes grew large, and in alarm he pulled his mother's sleeve, trying to get her attention. "Mama," he began. "You told me to…" he paused, wishing his mouth could form the syllables as fast as he could think them. "You told me never _ever_ to touch the…" he struggled for words, trying to force his mouth to move past the surprise. _Not_ fear, he knew, because he was a big boy, and big boys were _never_ afraid. "Programming pen while it was on, and…" he looked down at the experiment. "And that's _me!"_

Laughing in surprise, Bulma turned off the pen, and put the threaded needle down. "Oh, silly. That's not _you._" She grinned. "You know _why_ he's not you?" Trunks shook his head. "Because you're right _here!__" she laughed and picked him up, spinning him around the room so that everything blurred together, appearing to his child's eyes to be the very essence of space. His mother's bright smile became the sun, and her love for him, all encompassing, became the vastness of space…the people, outside and in their houses, were all stars, and he could see them all…_

 "See?" she asked, her voice full of amusement and gentle chiding. "You're right here. We're just making a dolly for you us to play with…" she smiled again. 

On the table, a small, white as bone-- snow, his mother had said, but it was bones he reflected, not snow --figure lay stretched out, with hair as silvery as the moon on a clear night. In his black, black eyes Trunks thought he saw stars, but his mother told him no, they were just eyes. Little buttons that only a doll could see with…

 "Okay, sweets. You hold his arms _very carefully_ so I can work, okay?" 

Trunks nodded, and leaned forward on his stool. 

The doll, silent as the dawn, began to beg, scream, and _shout_ at him to stop. It was telling him that he couldn't, that he _shouldn't _do this. 

And then he pulled back. "Mama!" he whispered urgently. "Mama, the doll's _talking to me._"

 "Trunks, you know dolls don't talk…" Bulma reprimanded, and looked reflectively at the toy. "At least not this one." She smiled reassuringly at the little boy. "Okay, now hold him still."

Despite his fear, Trunks did as his mother asked. The love of a child is unquestioning, sweet, and pure as only the young can be. He asked no more questions.

But the doll, lying there, silent as death, only screamed louder. 

Patient, but getting scared, Trunks tried to close his eyes, but didn't want to leave his mother alone. Softly, he began to sniffle, almost read to cry out of frustration and need to leave the doll alone. 

 "What's the matter, Trunks?" Bulma asked, turning to look at him. For the past few minutes, he'd been sniffling uncontrollably and rubbing at his eyes. "Don't like the universe that much?" she smiled, and stepped off her ladder. "I don't blame you…it's an awfully big place." 

Confused, Trunks looked up; letting his hands fall back into place. He held a screwdriver with one hand, and the other held a small sun in place as he adjusted its brightness. 

Trunks blinked. "Where's the doll…?" he wondered aloud, looking in confusion from the sun to the stars in the distance and the planets he and his mother had so delicately arranged. 

Bulma looked perplexed, placing her tools on the floating table next to her. "What are you talking about, Trunks?"

Trunks looked down. 

In his hands, a small, white doll withered in pain. Choking back fear and surprise, Trunks cast the doll aside.

His vision blurred, and the broken sun, hurled with all the might of a young Saiyajin, burst into flames as the chemicals and machinery inside the broken glass met the outside air. All around them, stars and planets burst into a fiery explosion that could only be described as…blooming. Like a flower, it started from the inside, moved up, and folded _out, _with some of the very centerpieces not exploding until the very end. Slowly, the gases began to fill the air.

 "Trunks!" Bulma cried in panic, fear made her voice jump up an octave. "Get the fire extinguisher! QUICK!" She clutched at the ladder. "And _don't touch the fire!" _

Nodding his understanding, Trunks took a deep breath, intent on reaching the said materials before it was too late.

He turned suddenly, tangling himself in cords as he collided with his mother, pulling the programming pen and the threaded needle out of her hands as he went tumbling to the floor. The searing pain invoked was enough to cause even this brave little boy to cry out, and tears filled his eyes.

 "Oh!" Bulma hastily unplugged everything, taking the root of the problem out before it could cause more damage. Moving faster than she would have thought possible, she scooped up her son. "Oh, baby, it's gonna be okay…Mommy's going to take care of you…shhh, hold still, okay? Hold still." 

Doing as she asked, Trunks careened to a stop, the smoke and haze filling his eyes as the workroom began to burn. 

 "TRUNKS!" 

 "Shh…shhhh…Mommy's got you…it's gonna be alright…"

 "TRUNKS, _THE FIRE!"_

_Hush little baby, don't you cry…_

_Mama's gonna sing you a lullaby…_

*****

Moaning with pain and regret, Trunks opened his eyes, not to see the interior of his suit, as he'd expected, but the grimacing faces of the Rebels who'd brought him down. For the past few days now, he'd been coming in and out of unconsciousness, unable to understand a word of their demands or form any questions.

After the battle, he couldn't really recall much…

For weeks now, he'd been fighting as he'd never fought before. From behind the machine's armor, he'd executed countless martial arts techniques against enemy soldiers, crying out for vengeance as tears fell down his cheeks. These people, these Rebels, had killed so many. Mary, one of his longest friends at the hangar, had _died_ fighting to protect this land, and she…the foolish, bright eyed optimist that she was…she gave them a chance to surrender and come to a neutral place to talk. As soon as her weapons were down, though, they fired. 

Their target was _not_ the machine…they targeted Mer, when she'd finally _listened _to him, and gave them a chance to talk.

Maybe he was wrong to suggest anything.

Looking back on it now, he knew he was wrong to take her suit, still bloody, still not quite in working condition, and wreck havoc on the assaulting groups. The rebels had some suits of armor to enhance speed, but very few technological advantages. Because they were limited to the primitive hand-held machine guns, they were alarmingly easy to overtake. However, as they'd proven before, they had enormously effective bombs, and combined with their basic hit-and-run strategies, they could cause quite a bit of sabotage. 

He killed many. And then he slept…

When he awoke, nobody would look him in the eye. Nobody would tell him anything, but when he asked for her, for Mary, he knew she'd died.

Despite everything.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid…_

He'd made himself a target. Single-handedly, he'd torn their futile attempts at an army apart, detailing plans no tactician could find flaw with. 

He was Saiyajin…massacre, fighting…it was all in his blood. 

The Rebels, however, were a hell of a lot smarter than he'd given them credit for. They came up with a trap that not even he foresaw, sacrificing dozens of their soldiers so they could get at him. After completely destroying the controls of his suit, they'd pulled the wreckage back to their camp, probably assuming any pilot inside would _have _to be dead.

But he wasn't, and for some reason, the doctors and scientists wanted him alive. The _mads, _the Rebel soldiers called them. From what he pieced together, they were the ones that brought it all together, forming the armies and gathering teenaged boys and girls to fight their war. 

Freedom, they said. They fought for the freedom of all people from the rule tyrants and dictators, to form a new government to improve lives everywhere… They fought for natural rights, independence, and peace between their two peoples.

"By fighting?" he'd asked, incredulous. 

 "Some things are worth dying for," Alex had replied. Dark of hair and eyes, already he showed the marks of a warrior, with his eyes glimmering with emotions so familiar to him…pride and arrogance. Alex challenged him voicelessly, asking him to refute the importance of these things they would die for. 

Trunks glowered at him. "That _is_ true, Alex, but nothing is worth _killing_ for…you can never justify death except by defense." 

Alex's eyes glowed fiercely with conviction. "We defend our freedoms!" he snarled. 

Trunks rolled his eyes. "Right. You go around killing people because your Mads say so, and you can't think of another way to get what you need." He was the very opposite of Alex in many ways, it seemed, the least of those differences being their physical appearances. "Do you know how many _lives_ you've ruined because you and your army don't want to _talk!"_

Alex gripped his gun tightly, seething as he tried to regain his composure. Though young, only in his late teens, he'd reached a surprisingly high rank. Serving as an advisor, mechanic and pilot in training, he had plenty of free time to study 'the art of war' as he called it. Trunks would just as soon dub this the study of 'death and dying.' The boy knew of more ways to kill a man in the air than there were _days_ in a year, and that was saying _nothing_ about fights on the ground… "I don't see any of _your PEOPLE _offering!" Alex spat.

Trunks sighed. "You're right…not many are." He looked at the floor. "And those that do die so quickly…" he frowned, and closed his eyes. "Yours don't help. Whenever a soldier would offer a friendly solution, they'd cripple both the pilot and the suit." He leaned against the chair, staring up at the ceiling. _How am I supposed to do _anything_ when no choices I can make are _right? _Even if I remain inactive…that's still wrong. _"This is _not_ a just war…there is no right and wrong." Suppressing the urge sigh again, he looked up at Alex. "No good or evil."

Alex looked at him curiously, as if just noticing something. "You're cracked, aren't you?" he asked, a little awed, a little fearful. 

Trunks bit back startled laughter. "And you're asking that…why?" he nearly choked.

Alex nodded to himself, smiling somewhat. If anything, he relaxed a little bit. "Thought so. No body can think like you and be completely sane." He smiled, and gestured to a door. "Come on then. If you're insane, then I suppose it's alright to introduce you to the others." 

Dumbfounded, Trunks stared at the spot Alex had occupied, and shook his head in blatant amusement. It seemed as if this boy was more comfortable with dealing with insane folk than not… Following his lead, he stepped through the door, not knowing what to expect.

 "Hurry up, then. I want you to meet the pilots."

*****

As it turned out, the pilots were all very suspicious of him until Alex explained, quite calmly, that he was 'cracked.' After that, they eased up a bit, and regarded him with open curiosity, introducing themselves one by one. There were ten of them, altogether, all of them young, relatively healthy and in good physical shape. These ten were undergoing training by the Mads after, he was alarmed to find, they'd trained with the Allies. Apparently, as soon as they'd gained the right to fight alongside their fellow peers, they'd all pulled vanishing acts, and used some of what every Allied soldier knew against them. His head spinning, Trunks looked from pilot to pilot, listening to their plans for becoming the channels for what became known as Super Giants, the suits still in design for mass destruction and power enough to take on armies.

Specifically, they were to take on the armies of the Allies.

There were no comparisons to be made between the two. The Rebel armies consisted mainly of lower-class people trying to better the world, idealists all, mostly young teens, all of them naïve enough to believe that because they fought for good, they would win. These children, unfortunately, served as fodder until they'd proven themselves capable of handling the more experienced, better-trained Allied soldiers. 

When they began to run low on lives to spend, the pilot candidates would go around the countryside recruiting, beginning low-level training programs so that they might have people ready to fight by the time their soldiers were nearly all dead. It was dangerous to venture into the cities, where the Allies found their young pilots, but sometimes they would go here as well, buying time until their 'secret weapon' was completed.

The few older people, and all of the pilot candidates, served as 'Generals,' and directly above them, rank wise, were the Mads. Under these scientists' tutelage, these children began a new form of training that included a variety of things. 

Unable to fathom the possibility of it all, Trunks listened in something akin to awe as they recounted their tales of infiltration to steal computers, and learn of what new improvements were being made. They employed Guerilla tactics, and worked together as the Allies couldn't seem to, relying on one another to pull a comrade out when they needed it. In short, they learned all about long distance terrorism.

The Mads were scientists, it seemed, geniuses who'd fixed up old parts and set the general designs for the Super Giants use. They were to resemble the usual suits, but with more added than the average machine. These machines, as it turned out, were man sized suits of armor constructed completely out of mechanical design to enhance a person's strength, mobility and speed, just as the Allies' suits would. And like the Allies, these suits would be launched from large Mother ships at the sight of a battle, where yet more hand-to-hand combat would ensure to protect the respected ships as the huge battle liners aimed at one another.

It could work, with some more supplies and skill behind it; they could very invent machines to top even those of his design. They were months away from creating a new form of suits that would surpass even the Allies, and in doing so, they could very well win the war. All they had to do until then was hold the fort, and try to keep their bases from being completely destroyed.

The designs themselves were interestingly simple. It was a new spin on an old idea, mimicking everything right on down to the advancement of Fighter ships. These ships would be of smaller sizes, and would act as cavalry to rescue stranded suits. They designed to have more speed and agility than he'd have expected, especially when he considered the Fighters the Allies had employed now.

Very few of their improvised machines had the standard stealth systems the Allies invoked, seeing that these were powered by the mother ship, and when they broke the tracking devices that allowed for almost indefinite rescue, the stealth modes were almost completely useless.

It was a creative bit of genius that anyone could have that of, and that, Trunks found, was the most surprising thing of all. The Super Giants created by men of talent, skill and ingenuity…

And these children…these trainees…would pilot them.

*****

Intrigued, Trunks would almost have volunteered readily, but before he could, the pilots shoved him into things, insisting that he take a look at the designs and see how everything was done. To them, insane meant he was 'safe,' and not likely to hurt any of them. Insane to these children meant genius in some way or another, and they were intent on finding out where his talents lay.

So he'd tinker with the machines, mulling over plans and wondering what he would be expected to do in other circumstances.

What _could_ he do?

In those dark times, he recalled the discussions he'd held with Mari, Carlos, and their group of friends, going over their suggestions and opinions as he tinkered with the Rebel's machines. Even now, he valued their beliefs nearly as much as their company, and took to designing specific 'breeds' of suits based on their comments, keying in small parts to each design, marking them with distinctive colors and form. He nicknamed them after the people who inspired them, and after a while, the names stuck. 

Mari's became the Fire Demon, the most menacing little devil he'd ever had the misfortune of creating, and Carlos' became the Angel. Their friends' proposals became the Avenger, Birds, the Black Dragon, the Wyvern, and most curiously, Hope.

Mari's demon mostly included extra bursts of firepower, with the most obscure little conveniences installed to keep the pilot level headed and calm as possible, much to his private amusement. While designing the Tri-beam cannon, as Trunks called it, remembering tales of young Goku and Tien, yet more dents were added to the stone floor, and the walls acquired a peculiar silhouette in the shape of one small teenager. 

His protective suit was just about as useful as using notebook paper against an open flame, but remarkably enough, he was the only one in the direct line of fire, and it didn't hurt him nearly as much as it did the _wall._

"I think maybe we need a safety trigger," Trunks had said at the time. 

The demon itself was red as flame, much like Mari's temper, and streamlined enough to give them an edge, but everything down to the fingers could be used as weapons, bearing spikes and other such devices that could be rammed into another suit with painful results. It was, naturally, as demon like as he could make it, and considering everything he'd seen in his lifetime, that was quite realistic. When possible, nobody went near Mari's demon unless absolutely necessary.

Carlos' Angel was equipped with speed unlike anything they'd ever seen, with one single weapon capable of administering quick release, and it was equipped with another 'weapon' in the form of a light bright enough to blind any enemy. The testing of _that_ feature left everyone in the Hangar moaning and complaining about damned kids. This resulted in the eventual installment of _tinted_ safety goggles strong enough to withstand that light, both so the people being rescued wouldn't be left blind, and the people in the testing areas could see after an unexpected flare. Trunks cheerfully dubbed this trait the Solar Flare, and was swiftly banished from the Hangar for the remainder of the day. 

The Angel was light blue, the color of a particularly strong Kamehameha wave, mostly white with tinges of 'heavenly blue.' These were streamlined, graceful, and the most agile suit Trunks had a hand in making. The force field of this one was quite visible, inspiring a sort of halo, despite the risk of the enemy being able to notice weak areas. For that attribute, he had to make the force field particularly dense and immune to breakage. Under enough pressure, however, it would break. For that, he advised the pilot in training for the suit to get _in_ and _out_ as quickly as possible.

The Avenger was more of a cavalry unit than anything, equipped with speed and firepower enough to cripple, but only for short amounts of time. Its most prominent feature was the electronic spear, which could, if aimed correctly and applied with the correct amount of force, penetrate just about any force field. Despite the mads' plea for less_ noticeable_ designs, this one was yellow in color, and in form it was more akin to the mythological god of thunder than anything else. 

 "These machines _will _inspire great things, sir. And if the enemy is scared out of their mind at the sight of one of these suits, then they'll already have greater expectations. They might over estimate, or if they're as untrained as you believe, freeze in their tracks." One of the mechanics, Trunks hadn't caught his name yet, quipped.

Dr. J, an old man with years and years of fighting and more prominently, experience with _science, _behind him, merely frowned. "Either that or they'll make martyrs of themselves and damage the suit _and _the pilot with one Kamikaze attack. They're too noticeable targets! We don't want our central weapons given away just by getting a good _look_ them, soldier!" despite that, no one could convince Trunks, or any of the mechanics on their team, to change the design. 

The only suit he'd made in duplicate was Alex's idea. The birds, designed for long distance air assault, were definitely group material. Because of their speed and agility, they had little room for weapons of enough firepower to cripple, but the 'arrows' they had were certainly enough to damage. In a group of four, they could take out an enemy suit, and back up their comrades more efficiently than another type. These were navy blue, and resembled a bird Trunks had seen once, an eagle, he thought it was called. 

Unlike the others, this suit would not have a standing pilot, but one lying on his stomach with his arms focusing the wings. This was undoubtedly the most unusual trait, and the pilots being prepared for this breed of mecha were in for a totally new perspective. 

The Black Dragon was a solo machine if it was anything, designed to work in synch with a Bird as back up, and equipped with just enough speed to keep up with the air assault. The flame-thrower it was enhanced with was peculiar enough in design, coming from the dragon's mouth, as it would in stories of old. This suit was sensitive to the pilot in the most extreme ways, giving it an almost ethereal appearance that suited its nature. Like a giant snake with wings, this suit was strong enough to take out any suit. The main weakness it sported, however, was the dragon's tendency to overshoot its mark. Despite everything, Trunks had yet to figure out how to encrypt a targeting system inside the intricate mess of entrails. Due partially to its sensitivity, the suit would move even as the pilot judged the distance, making a perfect shot nearly impossible. 

It could be argued that this was the most powerful suit, but in all cases of arguments, there is always the other end to consider, and that end, in this case, was the Wyvern.

It was perhaps the most terrifying suit, even though its appearance was simple in nature. It was humanoid in form, styled after a dream, and a green monster with poisoned nails. Humble in physique, it was nowhere near as awe inspiring as the dragon. This assumption would hold true for some time, but only until the Wyvern attacked. 

It was an unbeatable foe. With shielding strong enough to keep it invisible until it was in your face, it was damn near impossible to predict. This same shielding offered resistance to nearly _any_ attack you could make on it. For the most part it was built to rely on the stealth mechanisms to keep covered, for its speed and agility were only as good as it needed to be. This, perhaps, was its most noticeable weakness. 

Like all the suits he designed, the Wyvern had more than one noticeable feature, and its most remarkable attribute was not its stealth, but its only weapon. The claws on its hands and feet were equipped with an acid like substance that could burn through _anything_, leaving any suit it encountered crippled with its pilot exposed if the Wyvern got close enough. Like its cousin, the Black Dragon, it had something of a flame-thrower, but in place of fire, it threw acid. Similarly, its sensitivity kept it from making a perfect mark. While the dragon could use its flame-thrower numerous times, however, the Wyvern could use its only once, and after that, it could only rely on its poison claws.

The suit that troubled Trunks most of all was the one called _Hope._ He toyed with different possibilities, considering making a 'super suit' as Corry suggested, but disregarded it. The one person he could think of during the two days he plotted its creation, was Goku. And at the dawn of the third day, he had its creation mapped out in his mind.

It was a humble suit, with the same humanoid design as the originals, but with a blue crown atop its head. It could only be orange, he decided, red orange and yellow orange with blue trim to accent it, but with nothing particularly spectacular. It was streamlined, but unlike the other suits, its figure was more defined, more like the man it was modeled after than a machine. Despite the protests, he would _not_ have it any other colors, or change its design in any way.

The most prominent trait he installed was the self-learning feature. With the right pilot, this machine could obtain any of the traits of the other suits, should the pilot be strong enough to handle any of them. The techniques could be copied, but never to the same extent. It was the only safety catch Trunks could imagine, wanting the to avoid a tyrannical machine with power to dominate even the strongest of armies. Without the right pilot, this suit would remain a main unit, but with the right person, it could become a something more altogether.

*****

He'd begun to think of this place as some sort of cave…it was nothing like the Allies' hangar, and even less like the RA. He's spent so many hours there; he was bound to notice the differences. Here, he had to scrounge for even the smallest bits of materials, and practice every bit of conservation technique he _knew,_ and without the supplies he and his mother took for granted. There was scarce little light to work by, and several times he'd found himself creating a small chi globe _just_ to see more clearly. 

When there were no parts to be scrounged out, he'd opened every one of his capsules, looking for _anything_ he could work with even remotely. Eventually, he'd come across the extra pieces he'd picked up from the hospital. Most of them were odds and ends he couldn't have imagined a use for at the time, but had kept anyway because of his pack rat like tendencies with all things science related. Now that he saw them again, he had to grin. These little scraps would most defiantly serve as something…

As he carefully bent the small pieces into more manageable shapes, his thoughts drifted back to the days he'd spent raising the morale of his fellow patients, and all that he'd done there. During those days, he'd wanted nothing more than a good sparing session, but his body was in no state for physical exertion at the time.

He hadn't been training much at all, even after he'd recovered. In all these past weeks, he couldn't remember spending so much as one hour training. Without any sort of threat except that which he could imagine, it was becoming increasingly more difficult to do even the simplest routines, when he knew what sort of destruction he could cause. He was becoming weak…like his father had, when he'd buried himself with alcohol, but in place of that toxic drink, he buried himself in work. In science.

He knew better than that…didn't he? He'd witnessed the pain and damage it caused just to sit back and let the world dig his grave, and the hurt he caused around him. There was so much he could _do, _and he let himself rot? 

For what? 

He would defend peace, and the planet he loved so much…but could he risk his life, his _spirit_ for people who didn't understand the meaning of compromise? 

In his heart, he knew the answer, but he was in no shape to take the leap. 

_So that's going to have to change…from now on, I'm going to get myself back up to par. No more stalling when there's work to be done._

 "The pilots tell me you're the one behind these crazy designs," the voice broke his concentration more effortlessly than the sounds of gunshot had, and as he looked up, already crouched in a fighter's position, a tall, old man wandered into view. 

He was a large fellow, with bulky, thick-corded muscles that brought oxen to mind, though his steps were careful and decisive, unlike the unconscious plod of a beast of burden. There was something… evil about him. Something unclean and immaterial, like oil on water. Just being near him was enough to cause Trunks to want for fresh, spring air and cool water to wash away the taint. 

And yet, somehow, despite all reason, it seemed the man did not intend to be here. It was as if the wind had forced his path, like a plowman led the oxen to the field, unwilling, but too stupid to care or resist. 

Uncertain as to how he should respond, Trunks looked warily from his machine to the hulking figure, noting with some unease that while the man stood in a relaxed position, his footwork held signs the same signs of a long practiced warrior; always at attention, and always ready to spring into action. Should there be need. "That's true," he would have said more, tried to explain how they'd begun working in tangent, but the words died on his tongue as he watched the man.

The ox like man sneered, and beneath his lab coat, he wore loose fitting clothing, like Gohan's gi. "You've cost me quite a bit of money." Always he would stare straight ahead, never giving Trunks his full attention. His focus was on the world outside, with the aerial suits overhead and the bombing going on and on as he watched, almost dreamily, as a child watches the clouds pass.

Trunks shrugged. _Gohan, sensei, I have need of your wisdom…_It was no wonder the pilots had left early; they must have guessed that one of their trainers were to visit him today. If he had the choice, he would never see one of the Mads again. "You want these things built, don't you?" behind the casual ease he delivered the words, he felt himself coiling, just waiting for the strike to come.

Eyes narrowing, the scientist turned his liquid gaze on the teenager, his dark eyes sliding over him like so much oil, trapping him in place. Trunks froze. "You know very well, boy, that we have been working on these for a very, very long time--"

Annoyed, Trunks set aside the tool he'd been using, and his gaze focused on the man's obsidian orbs. "So you should be thankful for the amount of _time_ I'm saving you," he quipped. Easing into a more fluid state of being, he let his chi flow throughout his body, ignoring the searing pain it caused, and the burning sensation he felt behind his eyes. 

 "You are of the Allies," he breathed, and looked back to the window. A single suit fell to the earth, where it was swamped with yet more bombing, scattering the pieces all across the field, with the blood of the pilot staining every one of those parts. "How can you be trusted?" the grime and disease the scientist inspired were all about him now, slowing Trunks' responses and keeping his thoughts in place. It was near impossible to think around this man, this hulking figure he'd likened to a beast, but…

Fighting the impulse to beg forgiveness, Trunks found himself thinking of his father, his teacher, and of all people, the young Gohan he'd met all that time ago, in the world where his father was not all he seemed to be... _Saiyajin do _not_ beg._ It was as simple as that. Not even the weakest of Saiyajin gave up their pride. His father taught him that, without so many words."Your pilots trust me well enough," he remarked, and smiled, meeting the scientist's gaze. 

Outside, as the rain of terror continued to fall on their men, and the Allied soldiers Trunks had fought with, not long ago, and their ears were filled with the sounds of death and destruction. The lone man, a scientist, looked deep into the eyes of a boy who'd survived, and in them he saw war. The battle being fought was one more ancient than the Rebels, the Allies and their men, more ancient than human kind. The war between life and death raged on, and the cosmos reflected pain, sorrow and a glimmer of something the man could not name.

Death, he knew, would always win. But even so, life, bright, brilliant and bold as it was…it would struggle on. Looking into such depths, no mortal man can truly believe the lies he tells himself, that he is immortal, and no man can claim that his significance to the universe is so great as he would have it. 

But this man…this scientist, insane enough to believe in a cause that could not be…

He smiled. "You have my permission to tinker with these toys, soldier." With that, he started towards the door, his footsteps small and precise, and the door creaked open. "You have three weeks." 

The door slammed shut with more force than he anticipated, and the echoes flew about the room, this cave in which he dwelt, reminiscent of a man's dying screams…

And inside this prison, all hope seemed to diminish.

*****

tbc…

The next chapter will be out soon, by Friday, the 17th of January, if not sooner. 

**A VERY IMPORTANT question: **can Trunks go SSJ2?

The end is in sight. 

There are 14 chapters in all, counting the epilogue and the soon to be 8 chapters in Book II. This is an estimation, seeing that the last two and a half chapters haven't been written, and the others are being edited. If I ever get around to it, there _will be_ an interlude between one of the beginning chapters in Book I to make 15 chapters, and to explain Vegeta's…uh…behavior, and possibly another chapter (making 16) to recap the DBZ series during the Cell saga if I ever see it. That's not very likely. (I haven't seen anything after Freeza. I'm poor, you'll have to forgive me…can't buy or rent videos, and I know nobody who'd loan any to me.)

Special thanks to Raen for helping me figure out how to find the log in button…I know that sounds stupid, but my computer is frustratingly stubborn, and resistant to change. 

Thank you JJ and May for commenting; it's always nice to get some feedback. 

JJ, thank you very much for the compliments. *Grins* it's _getting_ well written, huh? (Grammatically, that's what it means…in case you were wondering…okay, so I tend to tease. I apologize.) Hey, I let you see Bulma! *Jokes* um, no, you do see some other characters, but I don't remember when…uh. I've been writing the past three or so chapters in as many days. It tends to make me forget little things, like what happens … (that's what editors are for! Reminding an author what they last said…*laughs*) 

May, uh…sorry? But thanks for the compliment! I'll be sure to tell Angst that…it'll probably amuse him, being my sister's muse and all…

Questions, comments, rants, critiques and concerns are always welcome. 


	11. Book II: Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: **DBZ is not mine. Story is.

**Warnings: **Violence. Language. Angst.  Possibly confusing dream sequence (I'd like to note that I'm rather fond of that part…). 

Losing Innocence

            by Taes

Book II:

**Chapter 5**

"PULL BACK!" Trunks shouted, and with the force of his voice, the radio transmitter shook and threw static into his ears. He'd installed these into each of 'his' suits, directing each one to his 'main unit' and having as many channels as needed. For each suit, a private line was established, and the open channel that allowed for all eleven of them to talk at once was rarely used. Mostly this was for Alex's tendency to get overly emotional during a fight, and everyone else's need for a quieter atmosphere to concentrate in. 

Frustrated, annoyed and more than ready to throttle the pilot, Trunks fought the urge to join the fight, or at least take out Alex. "You're too damned _stubborn,_ Alex!" somewhere in the back of his mind, he smiled, all to aware of just _who_ he was imitating. How many times his mother had said the same to him, he couldn't tell… "You need to get _out_ of there before your main system blows!" if that happened, he'd take out himself, and every suit around him, including those of his comrades. Knowing Alex, he'd see that as a bonus, even if it _did_ sacrifice his friends' lives. "If you don't get back here now, for one thing you'll be spattered against the insides of your suit, and you _know_ I hate cleaning blood out." It was an ongoing joke between the pilots, actually. Trunks refused to touch anything with the smallest bit of blood across it. It was too much for him to handle, and how could he know if it was the blood of one of his friends? Even if it weren't, it would be disrespectful to a soldier to take so little care with his remains… "For _another _thing_, _if you don't _get back here right now I'll _KILL YOU MYSELF. Understood?!"

He just hoped he wouldn't follow through with that statement…

 "Yeah--ah, I _hear _ya, Tru--s!" Alex called back, before letting out yet another ear splitting whoop that left his ears ringing and head sore. 

 "ALEX!" Groaning in pain and aggravation, Trunks readjusted his headpiece and glared out the window. "Your suit is in _no_ condition to _continue!_" Why, _why_ wouldn't the headstrong young fool _listen_ to him? "Get your ass back here _right_ now so the demon can get fixed up!" already he was sifting through his supplies, trying to guess what he needed if he wanted the demon to ever fly again. "If your radio's breaking up, I'm more than willing to bet your fire power's fading _fast_!" 

Outside, he could just make out the demon's form as it rammed into an enemy suit, pieces of its armor flying everywhere. "And you'd _better_ pick that up!"  
Alex only laughed, and waved cheerfully in Trunks' direction, scooping up the broken pieces of armor as he fled the battle scene. "The--, y-u --_py?"_ Trunks could only assume he wasn't asking for back up, and resisted the urge to scream at him some more.

The 'operating table' would need to be brought out, and every piece he could find would probably be needed, so it'd be a good idea to find out where everything went… "Whatever you say, Alex." He muttered. "I'm transferring out, so get any last words in now." There were a few static responses to that, but not at the right frequency to be interpreted as cries of pain or anything, so Trunks took the liberty of ignoring them in favor of checking up with Corry. "You hangin' in there, Corry?" he asked, cutting into the frequency line as he poured through the scrap heap. 

 "--watch your back, Anne!" the young man was saying, just as _Hope_, his suit, sprung out of the way. "That you, Trunks?" 

Trunks smiled with amusement, changing his position to see if he could catch sight of Anne and her Bird from this angle. Unfortunately, he couldn't. Anne and Corry were two of the better fighters when it came to working together, and Corry showed some promise. If he could get his head out of the clouds and concentrate some, he could very well pull Hope into a new level of power. "I see you and Anne have figured the private links out," he noted.

 "Yeah. You might wanna work on the sensitivity, though, 'cause whenever Anne or me fires--" he began, veering to the left and shooting simultaneously.

 "--Anne or I--"

 "Right…whenever one of us fires, the link goes straight out." Though he had absolutely no inclination as to what the young man was doing, Trunks got the feeling he was smiling, because Anne's Bird was becoming quite the spectacle.

Trunks nodded, and scratched a few notes in his notebook, hoping the quick scrawl would remind him to check up on that. "Uh-huh…so how's your suit holding up? There any significant damage?" from this perspective, it looked a though his suit was slowing a bit, but that could be put on Corry's shoulders…he and Anne were forming something of a relationship, and the two of them tended to stay up long hours talking about home and what they'd do when this war was _over. _Nevertheless, if he was tiring, it was time to pull him out of there. 

 "Nah, we're doin' good. Anne's left wing's a little stuck, but so far as I can tell--" he cursed as he was hit, careening towards the ground for a good twenty feet until he regained his control.

Trunks sighed, and wished he had time to get something to eat… "That's great, Cor, but what about _your_ suit?" At that point in time, Alex's demon entered the hangar, still steaming and covered in dirt. Trunks wrinkled his nose at the smell, and motioned for Alex to step out. 

With all the hissing and tightened metal creaking, Trunks had to strain to hear Corry's response. "--but overall, I'm fine." 

Walking over to give Alex a hand down, Trunks frowned into his radio. "Could you repeat that? Alex just pulled in and I can't hear over all the noise…"

Corry laughed, amusement flavoring his voice even as he struck down an enemy suit, falling back to allow for Anne's advancement. "Yeah, he's always been a loud one. Even his _suit_ is ill tempered!" he laughed again, and maneuvered his way behind the suit he and Anne had cornered. 

Alex rolled his eyes, looking a bit worse for wear as he reached for a glass of water. "--I heard that," he gasped between gulps, and sat down in front of the window, his dark eyes scanning the sky as he tried to gauge their progress. "We're nowhere near beatin' them, Trunks, so the sooner you get me patched up, the better." He advised. 

Trunks motioned for him to slow down and leave him alone. Corry's voice continued through the com link, running off a quick list of inefficiencies as Trunks jotted a few notes down. "Right. Keep your ears and eyes open, and watch your left side," he advised, and turned his attention to the demon. He groaned. _"How _is it that no matter how well everyone else is doing at keeping his or her suits together, _you two_ always manage to sustain the most damage?" he complained, running a hand through his hair. 

Alex shrugged. "Just lucky, I guess." He grinned, and started rifling through the scrap heap, spreading a few things out while he watched the battle above. 

Trunks glowered at him. "Right." He muttered, and flipped the com link on open channel as he set it on the stool he never used. Reaching for a primitive programming pen, he flipped open the still steaming chest cavity, and began to survey the extent of the damage. 

 "Uh, Trunks?" Alex ventured. "You realize that thing's hot enough to burn wood right now, don't you?" some amusement colored his voice, but mostly exasperation and a small amount of concern found its way to Trunks' ears. 

With one foot, Trunks scooted the wooden stool away, and began pulling pieces of the armor into the light, forming a small chi globe to better illuminate the situation. "Gotcha." Alex rolled his eyes, and privately hoped his insane friend would keep all the skin on his body by the time he finished with the demon. 

 "You have _got_ to be the strangest guy I've ever met," Alex noted, and squinted out the window as he tried to wipe away the dirt smudges. Trunks just smiled, and continued working.

*****

The air around him was little more than a thin veil disguising the overwhelming hatred between the two forces as they sat alongside one another, bitterly repairing their suits underneath the pale glow of the single overhead lamp. Like a dying star, it cast no warmth, and just barely illuminated the hangar so one could just make out the forms of the towering giants that were their weapons. 

Unnerved, Trunks looked from one face to the next, seeing his friends as they would look decades in the future; they were old, wrinkled and gray, while the new recruits, just barely over ten all, swiftly evaded their elders as they attempted to fix and repair the giant-like suits. Such hate filled their eyes…no matter if they knew one another or not, the children saw with tinted eyes, looking at childhood-- and how that word seemed ill suited, when these children were trying so hard to be adults --friends as enemies and siblings as their foes. 

They knew nothing of the beauties of life they supposedly fought for, and when the elders spoke of freedoms, they only smiled, as if to indulge these magnificent, if senile, veterans in their silly hopes and dreams so they, the children of war, could one day take up their arms and fight. These small beings, miniature demons, cared only for bloodshed, and thought nothing about the lives they ruined with their thirst for blood.

He alone was unchanged. His skin was white as it was when he'd first met Mari, Carlos, Alex, and Corry, and his eyes remained the same. He was regarded with interest, and certainly fear, for an immortal among men is always distrusted. There were no signs of the other pilots, and no signs of his other friends, but in the air, what he'd taken to be smoke were spirits, trapped in a world that spoke only of death, decay and more blood than he would ever care to see. 

Other world was overrun with souls, and these pitiful creatures were barely recognizable after so much pain and suffering. There were old, and there were young, and amidst the endless swarms of faces Trunks saw friends and foes alike, people from this world like Mary, and those from his own…but how could that be?

In this world, this endless hangar with dismal light where the air was thick with hatred and lost souls, there _was_ no other world. And the shadow universe had no after life to speak of when the entire cosmos was destroyed, so where else could they go, except with their destroyer? It was his fault. He created everything, and led this world to its doom…

Heart sick, Trunks tried to keep his mind from such things, and turned almost frantically to the machines, ignoring the pointed faces of children with sharp teeth and fangs, who hungered…hungered for death…

The suits were not, as he first expected, the general suit that populated the armies when he first came to the world. Hundreds of Fire Demons, Angels, Avengers and their like had evolved into these…giants…and the world was in ruin because of it. He knew that outside this hangar, there was only dead earth. No living thing survived out there, and the cities and towns that once ranged across the countryside were forced _under_ the surface, where supplies were more plentiful and they could turn the raw materials into metals used by the armies…

It was a world that existed only for war. Only…it only existed for a victory that would never come. It could not, until the entire human race was gone and long forgotten. But what kind of a victory could that be?

The Rebels, the Allies, no one knew the names of their 'people' any longer. They just…_were. _They fought, they died and they lived for the sake of fighting, killing and destroying what was left of their wondrous planet. 

What could he do, but despair?

And what…what _should_ he do?

There was, like in his personal hangar, a single window for these hundreds of people, and this window was rather small. It let in no light so far as Trunks could tell, and whatever purpose it was made for was small, at best. Looking up at it now, he thought he saw something…shapes up above that did not move like the suits, and were too small, besides. Curious despite the warning stirring in his heart, Trunks found himself moving closer, headed for the thing…no, the _things_ that lay in wait. 

His eyes could not focus on them, as if he was subconsciously delaying the ultimate terror until it was too late. 

Ghosting in and out of the material space, his essence formed a plausible form for itself, and spoke at a length with the planets, stars, asteroids and other space junk from within the confined walls of the hangar. It was all in his memory, what he did now, but he relived it to _see, to wonder, and to find if he could do something, anything for this planet before he met that terrible doom waiting for him… And in his memory, he felt everything as if it were happening now. He realized that life everywhere in that shadowy place, it all knew an end was coming. And they __knew there was little enough they could do to stop it. _

Some wept and wailed while others sent warriors to stop him. But in that state he was everything, and nothing at all. He was little more than light, and against the nature of the universes, his body became the center of it all, absorbing what it could. In other places, other great universes, all that were, all that _had been Center knew that something was wrong, and turned their all seeing eyes on him. These things, these objects, and upon rare occasion, these beings that were Center saw as not even he could, and they knew-- as he did --that death was coming for one of their own. _

But they could only watch.

And as Trunks went about his business, in his memory of space, setting right the wrongs he'd created, these things that were All remembered. And here, somewhere in this universe, the glowing white light of a star shone all the brighter. In his memory, it was the beginning of the end. Some planets sorrowfully relinquished their hold, and others did so without regret, without that sadness. It was as if they were tired, too tired to continue.

Their beauties didn't go unnoticed to him, and he knew in his heart of hearts that he would never forget them, and in all other universes, they would not forget _him. Those shadow planets were works of art, but they all lacked in something . . . in areas where one should not be lacking, even for a planet made of ice or some other such thing. They all knew, as only a great thing like the massive bodies of the universe can know, that they were not all. _

And they knew they were not right.

He realized that now.

Everything but the life supporting planets knew they'd existed for sparse moments only, that this boy, Trunks, had created them, and this boy would undo his wrongs. It could not be the same, intricate and finely detailed as the other universes, because he was _not the same, because he was not Center, and should never have been…These planets, these stars, they were born of his belief, and of his will they would pass away. _

But alas, life is a stubborn thing, and though many a black hole, great things that they are, gave in as easily as anything. Their inferiors, small planets like Earth, they fought to the very last. It was a marvel to behold, and a most curious thing. Species upon species met him, but few would acknowledge his justification, and some were able to pause his movement. There were, after all, creatures of the light in substance matter, and they knew how to stall one's essence. 

But he was, after all, his father's son. 

And not even they could prevent him from doing that which must be done.

He would have thought that this planet, like all the others, would have realized his role in the doom of another universe, but it hadn't. It was strange, because everything, living or nonliving, felt that. In all existences, no matter how far, it all knew what he'd done. This place had no parody in the shadow universe, but it _felt similar. There was the same wrongness, but to his mind, there was nothing to do but wait. This was no job for him; there was more to it than 'just' convincing the planet it was time to give everything up._

So he came out of his memories, and felt the universe's eyes turn away from him, and he looked up, trying to determine what stood just outside the tinted panes, and what mockery it meant for him. He opened his eyes, and as he made out human forms, his heart sank.

He already knew what was there.

He'd known it all along.

Their eyes, electric, ice blue eyes, spoke of amusement, and promised pain, suffering and yet more destruction on a planet that needed no more. Black and white blond, mirror image twins that loved nothing more than a fight to the death and cruel, pointless murder. The monsters of his childhood, materialized before him now to claim his death…they promised once, long, long ago, that he was theirs for the taking. 

That only they had the pleasure of stopping his heart and ending his life.

*****

With a pounding heart, Trunks opened his eyes, only to find himself inches from the floor. Panicking, Trunks dropped, unable to do anything but stare in utter relief, forehead resting on the cool floor. _It was a dream…just a dream…_

Breathing heavily, he rolled onto his back, and looked around, trying to make certain he was in all truth in the cabin, and not some foul smelling hangar. He swallowed, and sighed, allowing his eyes to close for a moment. He wouldn't be getting any sleep tonight that was for certain. There was no way in hell he would voluntarily go back to the realm of dreams when _they waited for him._

In the back of his mind, he knew it was not true, that the androids couldn't be waiting, not in his dreams at least. But it's a difficult thing indeed to fight nightmares, when part of your mind knows, or at least thinks it does, that the threat could very well be real…

 "Trunks!" someone hissed. Startled, and jumpy to say the least, Trunks found he was off the floor and in fighting formation within the space of a second, ready to attack at a moment's notice and aware of every living thing's presence in the room. "Woah…" recognizing the voice and realizing his chi was more active than any others in the room, Trunks relaxed visibly, and smiled up at Alex, though the expression was a bit strained. "You all right? I thought I heard something hit the ground an' all, and…uh…well, what's up?"

 "I'm fine," Trunks replied, and blinked. Talking hurt his throat, and his voice was more hoarse than he could remember it ever being, except, perhaps, after falling into this planet's atmosphere. It was as if he'd been screaming for hours on end, or…crying. "Just a nightmare,"

Alex whistled, a low, melodic sound that didn't suit the dark, sleepy surroundings. "Must have been some nightmare," he marveled. "Nothin' scares you," he grinned in the dark, and fumbled his ways out of his covers as he made his way down the bunk bed's ladder. It was a perilous, rickety thing, that ladder. One of the hinges that kept it in place was completely broken away, and the other was half on at best, so to avoid the entire mess falling apart and being sent sprawling across the floor, one's balance had to be fairly precise.

Trunks laughed hoarsely, and shook his head. "I wish that were true," he murmured, and pulled his cover off the floor. Exhausted by the day's activities and his private training, he had little choice but to sit down again, and starred regretfully at the walls, wishing for some sort of window so he could see the stars. 

Suddenly remembering what he'd _seen behind the window in his dream, Trunks shuddered, and retracted his wish._

He didn't need to be any more nervous than he was already. A window would only mean he'd spend all his time looking out it just to make sure he truly saw nothing. 

Were dreams really nothing more than left over thoughts from the day, or could they be something else? Did it mean _anything to dream, or were they in truth 'just' dreams?_

Lying down, Trunks stared up at the top bunk, and sighed. "Go back to sleep, Alex." He murmured. "You need to get some rest if you're to be of any use."

Alex frowned, annoyed at the abrupt dismissal. "And what about you?" he challenged. "If something happens to us tomorrow, and we don't got _you to fix our suits, then how long you think we can last?" he pulled a short stool next to Trunks' bed, and sat down. "My Da always told me that nightmares never really go away unless you talk about 'em, and settle your fears." He began, smiling ruefully. "I always had a hard time talking about mine, 'cause my Da was so strong…I didn't want him to think I was weak."_

Trunks smiled. "I didn't meet my father until…" he sighed. "Recently." Taking a deep breath, he looked at Alex. "He wasn't a thing like I thought he'd be." he chuckled, and wondered vaguely which 'father' he was talking about.  

Alex smiled, and shook his head. "Na, nobody is ever completely the way people make 'em out to be. Usually folk will just gloss over the picture and tell you all about their good points and forget the bad stuff." He shrugged. "That's life, though." Trunks nodded, and for a moment, the two boys were silent. "What's he look like, this father of yours?" curiosity filled his voice, and his entire face was alive with the want of knowledge. 

 "He doesn't look a thing like this," Trunks had to laugh at Alex's expression. "I look more like…used to look more like…my mother." he smiled. "I have his build, and sort of his height, but neither of my parents were spectacularly tall, so that could have come from either one." He looked ruefully at his hands, and stared at his skin. "My Mom says I'm a lot like him…proud, arrogant, stubborn and…willing to give everything up for what I believe in." he sighed again, and met Alex's gaze. "I used to have blue eyes, and violet hair, like my Grandpa…my skin wasn't this kami-forsaken color, either." 

Seeming interested, and altogether confused, Alex opened his mouth to say something, but decided against it. Finally, he asked, "What happened?"

 "A lot of things…"

 "Tell me about it. You're so goddamned secretive! None of us know anything about you." Alex prodded, gesturing excitedly with his hands. 

Trunks looked into the air, and remembered. "I killed them." Visions of the world ending filled his mind, and his heart ached with that too familiar loss. "My family, my friends…" he shook his head. "Everybody."

Alex opened his mouth, his face the very picture of surprise and delight at finally having solved a mystery, but decided against whatever he was going to say, and looked a bit confused. "Oh." He seemed ready to say something else, but the words didn't come forth, and Trunks wanted, more than anything, to be forgiven.

But he couldn't continue. It hurt too much, and Alex would never understand. 

 "Good night, Alex."

 "Uh….yeah…g'night, Trunks."

By the time Alex fell asleep, Trunks had managed to leave the cabin for the relative peace of the hangar, and for the remainder of the night he brought the pilots' suits up to the best condition they'd been in since their creation, and put everything in its place. He cleaned the window so one could barely tell it was _there, _and fixed the only stool so it wouldn't rock. Right down to the smallest details, everything in sight was fixed. He even worked out the problems with the radio, and got the scrap pile in working condition, which is to say, he made sure he'd be able to find _everything_.

After that, he trained. 

Unlike the other training 'sessions' he'd done, he didn't just practice…he went all out. Everything fell into place as he found his rhythm, and slowly, he found peace. The problems he'd been having with certain maneuvers disappeared, and for the first time in ages he began to progress noticeably, furthering his skills the way he would never have believed in what seemed like another lifetime. 

When he had no more energy to burn, and everyone else was beginning to wake, Trunks finally felt comfortable returning to bed, and without saying a word to anyone he went to sleep.

*****

After Kami-knows how many hours of dreamless sleep, Trunks' world erupted in a tumult of jarring noises, not the least of which being the sound of war, and the odd, scraping sound the bunk beds made as they rolled impossibly across the floor. Annoyed, confused, and altogether unprepared for such a rude awakening, Trunks bounded out of the room, sprinting down the halls toward the hanger even as he cursed his inattentiveness. 

When he reached the hanger, as he expected, he found the room empty of all the suits, and the supplies untouched. Grabbing his headpiece, he flipped on the open channel as he scanned the skies, hoping to get some glimpse of the battle he knew was ahead. _"Why didn't anyone tell me there was a battle going on?" _he demanded, annoyance, anger and frustration flowing through him as he paced the length of the room. "And where the hell are you guys?!" 

Amused laughter met his ears, and Alex's unmistakable war cry carried clearly through the link. "You needed your sleep, Mistuh Genius. And we're on the north side of the Eclipse valley, for your information." He could practically _hear_ the young idiot grinning. "We got tired of you dictating our moves, so we got the battle over where you couldn't see it." 

Trunks decided to ignore that remark.

 "What's this new feature, anyways?" Nora asked, curiosity flavoring her normally monotonous voice. "Everyone else's had one too…"

Smiling, Trunks walked across the room, and flipped a switch. "That'd be a temporary video link. If you'd kindly flip the switch, I'll be able to see whatever you're seeing, barring interference and really heavy electrical storms." Somehow he'd managed to rig a system from what spare parts he had remaining, and in no time at all he'd salvaged everything he needed for the display unit. 

One by one, a section of the screen was lit up by individual perspectives, ten different angles were shown, one for each pilot. Beneath each portion was a small data read out, giving the approximate count of energy, fuel, and resistance of each suit. If the read outs told him anything, the pilots had been fighting for quite some time, and many of them were desperately in need of repairs.

Cursing under his breath, Trunks debated against which pilot needed recovery most, and sighed in frustration. "What are you people going to do when you actually start bringing your suits to the enemy, huh? Think I'm gonna tag along with you just so you can get the advantage of having your own personal mechanic?" he grumbled. "Believe me, my devotion does _not_ go that far, so try to practice some conservative methods, alright?!" he seethed. "Fred, Nora and Rob, get yourselves out of there _now. _If any of you don't get here soon, then you're as good as dead. Everyone else, cover them as they retreat." Looking from one name to another and trying to decide who'd work best with whom; he began to wonder at the possibility of _any_ of them surviving this fight. 

 "Corry, you and Anne team up with Michael, okay?" not waiting for their confirmation, he tried to decide who else needed a partner. "Joel, you're with Elizabeth." Biting his lip, he wondered if it'd be safer to pair David and Alex, who couldn't seem to get along, or to leave David without a partner and hope he could get by… "David, you're on your own until Nora gets back. Alex, keep an eye on David and make sure he's covered from behind, all right?"

This would be one monstrous _nightmare_ when it came to processing. Here he was, watching ten different perspectives at once like some abominable fly, trying to convey to their respected pilots exactly w hat he wanted them to do so they might actually work together. Instead, all _he_ got was one hell of a headache, and seven confused, frustrated pilots trying to make sense of demands that were too obscure to help.

With his Saiyajin instincts for fighting and his learned mind for processing many different patterns at once, it only took a few minutes to become accustomed to the new viewpoint, and with some improvising; he did eventually get his suggestions clearly across. 

 "Alex, your back, David get over there!" he called, just as the three suits he'd ordered to retreat pulled in. "Uh, Joel, turn your switch a quarter turn to the left, okay? Right then, Corry, Anne and Michael start heading towards Joel from three of the compass points, but a third of the way there, pull up. While they're doing that, Elizabeth, come in from underneath and see if you can surprise 'em." One by one, he helped each of the pilots out of their suits, and shoed them over to the view screen as he looked over their suits. 

He clucked his tongue in irritation; if they'd stayed out there much longer, they'd have died, no question about it. The amount of energy seeping into their skin would leave a few marks today, that was for certain… "You three, get something to eat." He ordered, grabbing his pen. "And make sure you don't touch any electrical outlets…at this point, I imagine you're all very good conductors," he added cheerfully, ignoring his stomach's demand for food. "Oh, and on your way back, could you get me some breakfast?" the three pilots groaned, and muttered something along the lines of an affirmative. They'd all seen how much he could eat, and lugging all that back here was going to cause problems.

Looking over his shoulder, he watched for a moment as their plan was executed, and smiled at the accomplishments they'd made. "Alex, keep on the offensive, my friend, you're too brash to get anywhere with defensive tactics," he murmured, and turned back to the suits.

Some hours and a large breakfast later, Trunks let the three pilots back on the field and called four more inside. By the time he was back to watching the screens, he'd seen each of the suits at least once, and the battle raged on. Mostly they needed little direction, with the sole exceptions of Alex and Michael, and Trunks was able to concentrate on whatever suit he was fixing. Now, however, his attention could be focused on the battle.

 "ALEX, DON'T TAKE THAT HIT!" 

 "I can take it!" the hotheaded young man protested.

Trunks growled in frustration, clenching his fists and wishing he had something to keep his hands busy. "That may be, but if you take too many of those, you're back here. Remember what I said about _conservative tactics?" _

Alex muttered something away from the radio, and pulled out before his suit could sustain any damage. "…happy?" 

Trunks smiled grimly. "Immensely." 

Everything was fairly normal, all things considered, aside from the large numbers of Allied forces intent on destroying their base, and the screens showed nothing out of the ordinary. Something nagged at Trunks' senses, and his instincts told him something was not right…and just as he was about to suggest an all out retreat, the world erupted in light brighter than anything Trunks had seen in a long while, and he felt his chi rising instinctively to protect himself. 

The sky above rippled with suppressed energy, with lightning dancing across its surface as it sparked and whirled in unfamiliar patterns. The daylight faded in comparison to this awesome rift, a pocket of the purest power imaginable forming before their very eyes. It only intensified as time went on, and the sheer intensity of it forced all but the half-Saiyajin to look away. 

And from this pocket, he could discern two figures that at first appeared as one. Two figures that did not move as the suits did, and were too small besides. 

His gaze focused on these two, and even from this distance, as the brilliant light began to fade, he saw their cruel, bright-eyed smiles.

And then his world was still.

*****

tbc…

Next part should be up by Friday the 17th, if not sooner, depending on how fast I can write it on notebook paper and retype it on the downstairs. (This is where having two computers really sucks…when the disk drive breaks on the upstairs one, and your story is on the hard drive, you start to wish you'd just done it all in one place…somebody say thank you to Meghan. She's doing most of the hand copying stuff…Yeah well. If the disk drive gets fixed-- not likely, due to lack of money --then it could be up sooner rather than later.)

*Beams* I finished writing. Now it's time to edit…*groans* I hate that part. 

Thanks be to Juunanagou4ever, and Raen! 

Junanagou4ever, why thank you. (Authors love being told they're good…I'm _no_ exception, even though I enjoy critiques even more than praise…*shrugs* call me strange, I thrive on the prospect of a challenge.) Too perfect is something we all must strive against. *Rolls eyes in amusement* uh, no offense meant. That's just my strange sense of humor showing up… Just out of curiosity, who would you like to see Trunks with? 

Thank you Raen! That was one of the most intelligent, inspiring reviews I've read in a bit…You give your feelings, and then tell me _why_ you feel that way. *Beams with pleasure* I love that… 

Red _is_ rather strange. Originally he was gonna have more to do with the story, but…*shrugs* he faded away unexpectedly…uh, sorta. He does have some influence in some of the other chapters…I never got the chance to explain _where, _so you'll just have to guess. ^__^ 

Oh, geeze… *blushing, embarrassed and amused* another person who calls me poetic. (My sister does that…I don't understand poetry. _She_ writes some of the most liquid poems I've ever read…)

Thanks again to both my kind reviewers.

Rants, reviews, comments and critiques are always appreciated. 


	12. Book II: Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: **Dragon Ball Z isn't mine. The original chara's are, and so is the plot line. 

**Warnings: **Violence. Angst. Some language that may be considered inappropriate for children under the age of 13. 

Losing Innocence

                        by Taes

Book II: Chapter 6

The daylight hours seemed to be fading all too quickly with the disappearance of that one pocket. Compared to its brilliance the pitiable light that shone through the clouds of dust and debris seemed all too gray, too murky and dark to be of any use. The pilots could feel the hesitation in the air, and it was thick on all sides until the men and women began to recover. Alex was among the first to regain his sense of being, if not his sight. "What the hell is going on?" he wondered, easing his suit into a position better suited for this new threat. 

Staring at the image coming into focus on the screen, Trunks found himself breathing uneasily, readying himself for attack even as the things began to realize where they were. " Oh, shit . . ." he groaned, massaging his head with one hand as he furiously scrawled a message on his notebook. 

Nora pulled herself and her suit into a crouch as she surveyed the small army around them. "Trunks, what do you know about this new threat?" she asked, her voice quavering only a little as she spoke. "Is this some new weapon the Allies have been developing?" her eyes narrowed. "Or one of your machines?" 

 "These are nothing of mine," he whispered, and slowly went towards the window, wondering how long he had until the androids regained their composure and began their assault. 

 "But you are familiar with them." Her statement was simply put, and delivered with her trademark monotonous voice, although even now it held a fraction of what Trunks could only call fear.

Trunks shook his head and swallowed, unsure of how to respond. "I grew up fighting them . . ." he paused, "Everyone, pull back. Now."

Shock, hesitation and some blatant refusal met his demand and all around the battlefield the pilots tensed. "You know as well as we do, our suits are _fine_, Trunks." David remarked, pulling the dragon into firing position.

There were millions of possibilities that could take place from this point. He could save his friends, these pilots, or he could let them fight a threat unlike any other they'd ever faced. From experience, he knew these two would never tire, he knew their cruelty and the fear they brought with them, wherever they went. "David. You all are spectacular fighters, and very, very good at what you do, but you've been fighting the entire day, and your bodies need _rest._" He began, quite calmly as he opened the window, pulling up latches and pushing gently on rusted hinges. "You've never met anyone like these two," he grimaced and shook his head regretfully. "I hope you'll never see their like again."

Though he was no longer in a position to see what was happening, the radio was still with him, and the noises they picked up were mostly those he expected. One voice carried through like a knife through butter, cutting into his heart and momentarily paralyzing him. "What the hell just happened?" Seventeen. He'd thought he would never hear that voice again, and here he was . . . cold and merciless as death.

 "Are . . .  you all hearing what I'm hearing?" Alex asked, confused. The distinctive sounds of his suit's weapons being readied were heard over the links, and Trunks braced himself for the worst. 

Laughter, cruel and sharp met their ears as Android Eighteen rapped gracelessly on one of the suits. Trunks prayed it was not anyone he knew, and hoped Kami would spare these lives. "Look Seventeen," she smirked, "a tasty treat all wrapped up in tin foil . . ."

The window creaked as it opened, not wanting to leave the position it had held for Kami knows how long.

Seventeen laughed as well, and by the sound of it, joined his sister at the side of the unfortunate soul and their suit. "I say we open it," he grinned "see what kind of goodies there are inside." 

Finally, his gateway to freedom was prepared and the foul smell of burning metal and death assaulted his senses, like it had so long ago. Pushing the window shut with one food proved much easier that opening it, and Trunks pinpointed his friends and again hoped the androids would have mercy, or at least patience, as he made his way over there. 

Before they could do anything, however, a single shot was fired. The tri-beam cannon. Energy pooled between the demon's palm joined hands, focusing through the porthole left between the suit's fingers and channeling quickly from the suit's reserves into that one point. Alex may have been reckless, but of all the pilots, he had the best shot.

Unfortunately, the androids had experienced the technique before, probobly at the hands of its creator . Laughter filled the links once more as the twins looked the source of this unexpected problem in the eyes.

Trunks knew what Alex was thinking He'd thought it himself, the first time he saw the androids face to face. 

_Death._

One knew it when faced with it, and  he would always remember that first encounter, as their eyes, electric, ice blue, met his. They were without fear, these two. These twin terrors, and they knew without a doubt that no one here was strong enough to stop either. 

Once, Trunks thought there was always a cause for evil, and when this root was severed, peace would return. He thought so because it was right, and because that was the way things should happen.

Once.

He could see it in his mind. The single shot, aimed at the androids, racing towards its intended position like a living thing constructed of energy so pure it tore a whole in the visible light spectrum and absorbed all colors around it. And the twins, black and white blond, turned while joining their hands, mockingly imitating the position Gohan and Goku preformed while pulling their energy together in one spectacular Kamehameha wave.

Collision was inevitable. 

Two hands, and both were small, slender and pale. 

Flying through the air, he envisioned the scene as he heard the energy pooling once more within the confines of two hands. They were unharmed, of course, armed with enough energy to destroy any suit with ease. Once again, laughter filled their ears, and the sounds of a suit being forced open with raw energy filled Eclipse Valley.

For once, no one said anything.

The screams of the dying man, an Allie soldier, Trunks was relived and terrified to find, filled the air. And then, he was still as the suit fell in two halves. 

Eighteen smirked. "Well, looks like we found a few humans in tin suits." She quipped. "Welcome to Oz, Seventeen."

Her twin stared at the dead man on the ground, annoyed. "Five points for each of us." He said simply, and looked around, surveying the large amounts of suits and the carnage that lay bellow. "Here I was thinking we'd finally found a nice place without all these damned _humans_ to bother us." His voice carried enough amusement to make him smile, but there was sine sincerity to his words. "and it turns out they're just playing dress up." He snorted. "Figures."

He was getting close to the field of battle, and before they saw him coming or sensed his presence, Trunks focused his energy, pain and anger and felt his energy lift as he took the form as what was known as the legendary transformation, now called Super Saiyajin. 

Closing the space between them in moments, he took the time to once again hail his friends. "Retreat now. You have no idea who you're fighting."

Once again, they were too stunned to respond, all eyes flickering between the dead man below and the new threat. None noticed the difference in frequencies as he passed them, too fast to see, and nobody was paying enough attention to hear the air whistle as he approached. 

Trunks attacked, taking both androids by surprise, sending both flying in opposite directions until they regained their composure. Twin sets of eyes were on him now, and he smiled, all too aware of their attention. 

Eighteen snorted. "Oh, look" she sneered, flipping her hair and smiling coldly as he came closer. Alert, Trunks braced himself for an attack. She tilted her head, and her eyes narrowed. "Blondy's back, and just as annoying as ever." She rolled her eyes and grinned at Seventeen before meeting Trunks' gaze again. "Why couldn't you stick with purple? Haven't you had enough of copying me?" 

Seventeen laughed outright, seemingly appearing out of nowhere as he caught Trunks' arms behind his back. "So this is where you've gone to . . .we thought you'd gotten bored and died someplace." He sounded mockingly mournful, but his expression retained the same pitiless look. "You know the rules, Saiyajin." he crowed, "we're the only ones who can kill you."

Eighteen smiled, and began her attack, pummeling the struggling Super Saiyajin as her brother kept his arms in place, coming dangerously close to snapping them as he slowly increased the pressure. "Your Mommy missed you, by the way. We felt sorry for the haggard old thing." Her expression never changed, and in her blue eyes Trunks saw _nothing._

Hurting and outraged, Trunks found the energy he needed to force Seventeen away, and charged the blond android with an unusual burst of speed. "Leave my mother out of this." He snarled, punching her in the stomach and hurling her like a doll into the ground, aware only of her slender figure in the newly-formed crater below. Forming a ball of energy in his hands, he took aim, and fired just as Seventeen flew into him, cracking ribs and successfully knocking him out of Super Saiyajin, sending the energy blast well out of his sister's way, 

For a moment, they both stared in amusement, laughter filling their eyes as they looked at his white hair and into his endless eyes.

 "Trunks?" Alex wondered, his demon in a strangely unprepared state. "What . . .?"

 "Get _out_ of here!" he screamed, and wished that they would do as he wanted and needed them to. But they wouldn't, not when it was important, not when their lives were being asked for no reason at all. "Don't you get it?" his voice was little more than a whisper, but it rose with each word. "This isn't your fight! They'll _kill you."_

 "No way, man. We don't leave friends behind, remember?" Michael replied, speaking for all the pilots as they moved into formation, completely forgetting the Allied soldiers around them.

Seventeen smiled, advancing with the cool ease of a natural predator. "Listen to this, Eighteen… the kid's finally found some friends to sacrifice." His trademark smirk in place, he grinned at Trunks. "And it seems to me that he's gotten a makeover," he roughly took hold of the boy's neck, keeping him frozen in the air as he got a good look at his eyes, hair, and skin. While he wasn't _gentle, _there was a definite air of curiosity about him as he looked the boy over. "Permanent, or like your cheap imitation of Gohan's form…what was it called?" he drawled, rolling his eyes to the sky, as if it would tell him. "Super Saiyajin?" he laughed shortly, meeting Trunks gaze for gaze.

Letting out a frustrated scream, Trunks pooled energy into his hands, focusing as much chi as he could spare at his captor, trying desperately not to cry for friends he'd failed. Seventeen didn't flinch. Even so, the demi-Saiyajin smiled, and nodded. From  ten different angles, the pilots attacked, and the android was startled into releasing Trunks. He glared menacingly at them, and aimed one swift kick at his long time adversary while directing an attack eerily similar to Krillin's disks in a boomerang arc. 

 "MOVE!" Trunks suggested, and once again picked up his assault, forcing himself to the next level as he prepared himself for a simultaneous attack. Even with his defense, the barrage left him dazed and helpless to each subsequent blow, unable to find his feet. 

Throwing all that was left of his force into one enormous energy attack, Trunks managed to drop down enough to gain some measure of awareness as he directed the wave in two directions.

The androids, unfortunately, knew this was coming, and seemed to step casually out of harm's way.

Trunks sighed, and wished he had time to regain his strength as he forced his already aching body into direction, flying towards Seventeen, ready to block and deliver any blows while trying to keep aware of his twin's whereabouts and exactly what she was doing. The next few minutes were blurs of pain in Trunks' mind, and through desperation he managed to come up with tactics that never would have occurred to a fully sane person. Whether or not this was a good thing he wasn't certain, but it kept him alive for the time moment, so he didn't  stop to think about what he was doing to his body or the people around him.

So intent was he on the androids that he completely forgot about the pilots, and when they attacked, they not only caught the twins by surprise, they took some of Trunks' concentration as well. Not prepared for an assault from so many different angles, Trunks reacted out of instinct, pulling energy from some unknown reserve and directing bullet like streams of chi towards the unknown assailants. Just before they collided, the demi-Saiyajin realized exactly _whom_ he was about to murder, and with some concentration, he managed to heave the missiles out of their way.

 "Warn a guy next time," he muttered, adjusting the radio with one hand.

A protest filled with static met his ears, and unsurprisingly, it was Alex who managed to form the first distinguishable words. "We DID! You just weren't listening!"

Trunks blinked, and inwardly marveled at the seemingly indestructible headpiece, wondering how that managed to work out. "Oh." 

 "Trunks, behind you!" Anne called, urgency filling her voice as she aimed a few well-directed projectiles at a target moving too fast for her to clearly see. None of them hit, but the warning was enough to get him moving again before his muscles began to stiffen and cramp.

Unfortunately, he hadn't realized the attacks he'd assumed one android had enacted was in reality performed by both, so while he distracted himself unnecessarily by looking for the other, the twins slammed into him with enough force to send him once again back to his normal state and into unconsciousness. 

Seventeen smiled, and caught the boy's body before it hit the ground. "That was fun," he remarked, eyes glimmering with something that could only be called malice.

Eighteen nodded, and pulled the half Saiyajin from her brother's arms and tossed him none too gently to Alex. His armor provided the satisfying _crunch_ associated with broken bones and dented metal, and because the suit itself was a well honed weapon, Trunks' skin was broken and blood fell. 

 "Make sure he stays alive for a little longer," she suggested, smiling coolly at the stunned boy. "He's ours to kill." She and her brother turned, and looked casually up at the darkening sky. "Nobody else's."

 "Sleep tight," Seventeen nodded something of a farewell, and with that, they disappeared, leaving the battlefield empty of life except for the pilots and what few enemies remained after so vicious a battle.

Wordlessly, they exchanged glances, unable to speak.

Finally, "Joel, you're the fastest of us, so it's up to you to get the hatches open." Michael suggested quietly, directing everyone's attention back to their present sate and away from the teenager who seemed no older than a small child as he lay still in the arms of  a machine so much bigger than he, dripping his lifeblood onto the suit for which he'd worked so valiantly.

The Angel nodded, and where that would have been a strange, comical sight at another time, it only reminded his fellows of how much they'd gone through that day, and what they could very well lose if they weren't careful. "Right," he replied, and sped off, intent on his duty as the others trailed behind him.

No one spoke. It would have seemed inappropriate, and besides, no one knew what to say.

_You have no _idea _who you're fighting, _Trunks had said. These enemies from his past were indeed like nothing they'd ever faced before.

But Michael was right; they didn't leave friends behind, and when a friend needed help, they'd do everything in their power to give it to their companions, even if neither were certain of the friendship they shared.

By the time they got back to the hangar, everyone had realized how tired they were, and how much they'd really given up by staying on the battlefield. And for once, they were quiet as they helped one another out of their suits, and voiceless as they put Trunks in the arms of  doctors, heading once again for the hangar to clean up their suits as best they could. For a time, it was enough.

 "We…all of us…need to get some sleep," Nora began, and smiled wearily at her constant companions. The expression didn't fit  her personality, but they took comfort, nonetheless, from her gentle concern. "We can finish this in the morning, when our minds are working properly. Right now, the best thing we can do is get some food, and rest."

Nodding wordlessly, the group of pilots, friends and partners alike, made their way out of the cavern like room, and into the light. The androids' words hung in their thoughts like an ill omen even as they talked quietly of home over a warm meal, and though none of them said it, they all felt the same chill whenever their eyes wandered towards the single window in the room.

_He's ours to kill. _They knew what she meant; they'd seen it in her eyes. Trunks would die by their hands, and when he did, there would be no one left to keep them from killing everyone and everything in sight.

Sleep tight… 

If only they could.

*****

 "Here, drink this," an unfamiliar voice instructed, pressing a warm mug into Trunks' hands. His fingers closed around the smooth surface instantly, and something about the familiar scene reminded him of all the times his mother had done precisely what this man, a doctor, he presumed, had done.

Trunks groaned, not opening his eyes. "Not so loud," he begged, and looked into the cup. It was filled with an amber colored liquid, gently steaming and smelling wonderfully of honey and rich tea. "And how did you know I was awake?" he croaked, and became suddenly thankful for the drink in his hands, and sipped gingerly at it. When he found it to his liking, it swiftly vanished from the mug to his stomach, and Trunks absently placed the empty container on the table next to him. 

The doctor smiled, and filled the cup. "You blinked," he said simply, watching as Trunks swallowed yet another serving of the tea. Wordlessly, he passed the pitcher to the boy, and after he finished _that, _the doctor filled it with boiling water, added a few tea bags and generously doled honey into the mixture while administering small amounts of sugar. Amused, Trunks watched with interest as he did the same three times over before deciding he'd had enough to drink, and surrounded him with loaves of buttered bread, toast with various kinds of jams, baskets of assorted fruit, jars filled with nuts, a few pitchers of milk, and a healthy platter of eggs.

Grinning, Trunks quickly polished off the eggs and was beginning on the toast between sips of milk as the doctor spoke up. "You've been sleeping for the past three days. Your wounds have been cared for, but we couldn't force you to eat as much as you need," he gestured to the piles of food. "Thus we've been preparing ungodly amounts of food for the past few days, and letting the pilots, mechanics, and other such fellows finish off what you didn't." his eyes twinkled. "We've managed to make quite a few people happy." He noted, seemingly genuinely pleased.

Trunks sobered at the mention of the young pilots, and looked around the room, half expecting to see one of their faces. "Are they--"

 "Just fine," the doctor assured him. "The Allies haven't attacked us in about as long as you've been sleeping, so we're in good shape. Everyone's well rested, and they claim to have managed to repair the most complicated damages made to their suits," he shrugged. "seeing as I don't understand any of that mechanical stuff, I wouldn't know if that's true or not." He admitted, and gestured to a piece of bread. "You don't mind if I--" he asked hopefully. 

Trunks raised an eyebrow and nodded.

 "Ah. Thank you… I haven't eaten since five, and it's half past eleven now." He smiled at Trunks, and happily helped himself to a few pieces of toast and a small glass of milk.

For the next few minutes, they ate in silence, and after they'd both completed their meals, Trunks closed his eyes, and hoped nothing terrible had befallen his friends. "What of the androids?" he queried, his voice soft against the tumult of everyday life.

The doctor seemed only puzzled by the question, and curiously tilted his head. "Androids?" 

Trunks blinked, and realized his mistake. The doctor had no way of knowing the complex history behind the twins, or even the most basic knowledge. "The twins, Seventeen and Eighteen, they're cyborgs." He tried to explain it as best he could, but was having a difficult time remembering the words he was searching for. "The people where I'm from call them 'artificial humans,' but that's not really true. I grew up thinking they _were_ androids, but they were once human, mechanically redesigned to become what they are now." He shrugged, and bit his lip.

His smile becoming somewhat strained, the doctor leaned closer. "So you're telling me you know these…androids?" he seemed both hopeful and wary, as if he were unsure of what he should think or do.

Trunks nodded. "I've been…fighting them…my entire life." He looked away. "Until I came here, and got caught up in this war," he corrected himself knowing that wasn't completely true any longer.

 "You're not from here," the doctor stated, and climbed shakily to his feet.

Trunks shook his head. "No, I'm not." He paused. "I'm from a different planet, and so are they." He sighed, and looked away. "Can you get the pilots, please?" he pursed his lips, and looked around, feeling for their chi. Then he stopped and stared up at the doctor, alarmed and somewhat taken aback. "They're here." He sighed again, both frustrated and somewhat relieved. _Well. _At least now they knew the basics…the doctor seemed a little guilty, and murmured something about needing to tend to other patients.

 "Alex, tell the others to come out from their hiding places," he called, frowning and trying to appear displeased. "I need to talk to _all_ of you." One by one, they revealed themselves. Too tired to keep up the charade of annoyance, Trunks smiled and eyed each of the pilots with some amusement. "It's not polite to eavesdrop," he chided, and motioned for them to take a seat. "But nevertheless, you know now what the androids are."

Alex glowered down at him, pulling one of many chairs to the side of Trunks' bed, and sat. "How do you know them, and why didn't you _tell_ us anything?" he demanded.

Shoving guilty thoughts aside, Trunks tried to regain his composure, found that a useless exercise, and looked down at his hands, folded in his lap. "Would you have believed me?" he asked, trying to prove a point and get an answer. Alex snorted, probably remembering the first time he'd talked to Trunks, and proclaimed him incurably insane. Even that thought was not enough to cheer the demi-Saiyajin; it seemed pointless in comparison to waste time on anything else when he needed to know if what hew as doing was _right._

But these were not the people who could do so.

Those people were dead.

The silence was enough o answer his question, and Trunks smiled, albeit he did so tiredly. "I didn't think so." He murmured, and pulled uselessly on the sheets, trying to find something for his hands to do. "I'm not entirely human," he began, not looking any of them in the eyes. "My mother was, but my father was Saiyajin." he fidgeted. "He was killed by the androids when I was a child."

Alex sulked quietly, the very picture of a hurt infant betrayed by someone he trusted. "But you said--"

 "That I met him?" Trunks met Alex's gaze, but swiftly averted his eyes. "I did. Where I'm from, technology used to be more advanced, before the androids destroyed everything." He pulled a small container from his inner pocket, and clicked it open, tossing it to a cleared area. The capsule exploded into a filing cabinet, filled with various odds and ends Trunks had collected over the past few months. "A capsule. It can hold just about anything and keep it in a pill_-_sized container that fits in your pocket." He recited, quoting one of the old slogans Capsule Corps run a while back, and sighed. "My grandfather invented them.

 "Anyways, I just wanted to show you that things are…different." He paused, trying to find the words he needed. "Those two have massacred over two thirds of my planet's population, leaving those that are remaining in cities that are little more than rubble. My world has gone to dust because of them." He gestured futilely, and fumbled over his sentences. "They  may have been human once, but as you may have noticed, they hate anything that's even remotely connected with living things." Trying to smile, he stopped, swallowed, and stared up at the ceiling. "They don't die, they don' get tired, and they don't need to sleep. Their energy is enormous, not to mention it _doesn't run out. _The only thing that's kept them from destroying everything is their cruel desire to see us suffer." He was near shouting now, ignoring the pain it caused his throat and trying to keep his mind steady.

 "And me. They haven't killed everyone because of me…" he added quietly, and sighed. "I amuse them, so they keep enough people alive to keep me fighting, and torment them just enough to keep everyone living in fear." He shook his head sadly, and wished for one moment that he could be more like Gohan, and explain things to these pilots gently and clearly as possible while still getting his point across. And he wished…

He wished he'd been strong enough to stand up to those abominations. 

He wished…so much.

_…maybe…?_

Too much.

Corry smiled bravely, and raised one hand, as if to interrupt. "You must be one strong guy, then," he offered, and the others murmured their muted agreement.

Trunks laughed, and met their gazes, one by one. "I wish I could believe that…" by the confused expressions they wore, he knew they didn't understand. Pained by the sudden memory of _every_one that'd given his life for some kind of peace when he lived even now, Trunks' patience grew thin. "But they have killed people who were much better warriors than I am. My father, my teacher, Gohan, and countless others. They're why my Mom built it. To try and stop them from getting out of control before it was too late…"

 "Built what?" Nora asked quickly, her soft brown eyes urging him on. "Tell, us, Trunks. What did she build?"

Amused, Trunks had to laugh at their enthusiasm. "It didn't work. The time machine brought me back, but it didn't change _our_ future…just theirs." He smiled wearily at Alex. "That's how I met my father," he explained. "But…it didn't work, and now I'm not even sure if there's a home left for me to return to." He closed his eyes, and thought about everything the androids had said. "It's broken, anyways. I've tried countless times, and nothing ever happened…"  
"But we can beat them! Mecha against mecha! We have the brains and the firepower to beat their asses--" Alex protested, fire lighting in his dark eyes.

Trunks stared in amazement at the young man. "No. You can't, and _we_ can't. Anything you do will _not faze them. _Any tactics we could devise would have not effect whatsoever; some of the greatest fighters who ever lived _died _because of them. With these two, firepower's all that matters, and none of us have anything that even comes close."

Frustrated, he tried to make them see. "The only thing we can do is wait, and hope we can come up with something that can shut them down. Now…go. Leave me alone…I need to sleep…"

With that, they left, each one glaring sullenly at him as they passed.

*****

As soon as Trunks felt well enough to leave bed, he helped himself to a healthy snack and left for the hangar, intent on fixing whatever problems remained with the suits. If they worked together, they just might be able to inflict some damage…despite his earlier words, Trunks found himself looking for answers to questions he hadn't asked in a long while.

What were their weaknesses, and how could he exploit them?

Even as he fiddled with the suits, his mind was elsewhere, building off old tactics that had worked before against significant firepower. Unfortunately, the firepower came more often in the form of sheer strength, so there wasn't much adapting he could do.

These…suits, they were his creation, and full of little devices and tricks he'd learned about while dissecting the androids. While they weren't as insanely complicated, some of the basic designs were in play within each suit and the same structures could be assumed to have approximately identical problems…but no suits were completely alike, not even the four kinds of Birds he'd modeled after one another. They were built to fit the pilot, and the troubles that insured were specific to each weapon.

I wish they were all a dream…I can't do a thing against them… 

How many times had he been in a situation like this? They'd taken advantage of his inability to let people suffer too many times. He should have learned long ago that trying to get human civilians involved rarely ever paid off, and more often than not it ended in tragedy. Many images of carnage and destruction surfaced in his mind, scenes of utter desolation amidst the human people, where hopelessness went unrivaled. Because of these two, he'd seen grandparents burry their families alone, struggling to dig a grave deep enough o keep scavengers out and trying to finish the job before the bodies rotted.

So many dead…

The armies of his world were all but annihilated, being allowed pitiful results and numbers too small to do anything but keep their facilities guarded. And yet the people relied on them. Easily satisfied with the thought that someone would protect them, the civilians ignored the past results and insignificant figures. So the militaries were shamed without realizing it, compelled to go on with their duties because there _were_ dependents. So, time and time again, they were insulted and torn about, without ever truly understanding how helpless they were against two whose might stood unparalleled.

And now they had the chance to do it all over again. But this time, there were so many more complications to consider. If they chose a side with one of the forces, Allies or Rebels, there would be people who saw them as _saviors, _and that would be a dangerous thing indeed.

If he died, there were none left to follow him.

_So there's only one way this can end,_ Trunks decided, smiling to himself. _Just one…_

*****

He heard them long before he saw them, and he sensed the demolition they caused long before that. Within his heart, he knew this was a trap, and that they sought only to bring him out of his 'chosen' battlefield and into their clutches. There would be no survivors, but he had to try, nonetheless. 

Among the suits, he'd devised another radio receiver and transmitter, guessing that there would be a time when the pilots wouldn't have their suits to communicate with, and assuming a time would come where he would need their advice. It was a standing microphone type piece that sat on the thick table, connected to a power device similar to the ones he'd installed in the suits themselves. Knowing they'd be able to find him, he flew out of the hangar window at a relatively slow speed, for there was little reason to waste his newly recovered energy on the road _to_ the battle. There was no telling how long this would take, and it was more likely than not for him to wind up half dead before they gave up. 

He was confident the pilots would make the right decisions, and just in case, brought his head set with him, thinking they might need to contact him.

All he could do was hope they wouldn't follow. Suffering from lack of time would bring him to a disadvantage, but there were few things he could do besides getting out of the vicinity. He was torn between wanting their assistance and needing them to be kept safe, unsure if he wanted their suits up and ready so he'd receive something of a hand, or if he wished their ultimate survival above all else. With the suits half broken, it wasn't likely they could get out of there until evening anyways, if not later. With this knowledge, he could be at ease. 

Unless…

Unless they skimped on the repairs and followed him out sooner, or worse, brought a less powerful suit to the battlefield.

Then there would be trouble, no doubt about it.

With a wry smile, Trunks felt he finally understood why teenagers, especially himself, had frustrated his mother so much. _Impertinent young people who rarely ever thing things through or consider how much damage they'll do to themselves…_ it was a grim thought, and melancholy memories of his mother filled his mind. Now was not the time, however, and he had a serious need of a clear head.

He picked up speed as he flew further out, desperately seeking out the town that'd been massacred. Knowing what he'd find didn't help any, and if anything, it made it worse. There was little he could do for the injured in times like these, even if that's what he wanted the most. Ironically enough, he had absolutely _no idea_ what had been done, though something told him it would be much like other massacres he'd seen, with the unfortunates left to die slow deaths while he attempted to make it up to them.

What else could he do?

He could very well devise another control to shut them down, but without the supplies, it wasn't likely that any adaptations he could make would _work._ It'd been difficult enough to devise one with all the supplies money could offer, and that was one procedure he'd rather _not _repeat. Besides, without anyone to distract they androids, they could and _would_ make short work of any who tried to oppose them.

Trunks knew himself. He knew that he would be of no help if he were building something complex as that small remote, and he knew he wouldn't be able to sense the androids' coming. He'd be a sitting duck, helpless to their tantrums, as vulnerable as a child to their parents' chiding. What he needed was _time._ Without time, and a way to keep the android out of his hair while he built the damned thing, they'd all be doomed. This go around, there was no Vegeta to distract them, nor much hope of any 'mere human' doing the same after they'd already become accustomed to killing all her attempted opposition. No…there was nothing to help him, not even his mother, who'd built one such gadget in another time…

_What _can_ I do?_

Nothing. He could do nothing but wait for them to tire of the mockery they called 'battle' and hope they left him in good enough condition to get some work done on the blueprint that formed in his mind. Trunks smiled. _Hope…_

_That has a nice ring to it,_ he mused, and finally met up with the two beings he'd never wanted to see, not now, not ever. There was nothing for it but to face them.

Despite his attempts to remind himself of exactly what the androids could do when they were so inclined, taking sight of the town was too much for any one person to handle. He found himself transforming before he even caught sight of the twins, but it was too late to employ that tactic; he'd need to spend _days_ like this to actually have made a difference in the amount of energy it saved, and he just didn't have _time_ for that.

It was all horribly familiar; he'd seen this before, long ago. His mother had finished the time machine because of a similar situation, and seeing it again filled his heart with dread. There were bodies all around even now, before the real fighting had even started, and the hot sun baked the air with that all too familiar smell. He knew what he'd find when he caught up with the androids, and he knew he'd be the cause of an accident so profound he didn't want to think about it. They'd make sure of that, forcing him to relieve his last, possibly most acute defeat at their hands. It was all part of one complex scheme to make him insecure in his skills, his abilities, and remind him _why_ he left the world to begin with, and why all the twins could have ruined while he was gone.

They didn't want to kill him.

Not yet.

First, they'd show him how very _helpless_ he was.

They'd show him how to forget hope, the way they'd shown so many others…

_Well, _Trunks thought, looking around with growing despair as he observed the scene. _If I fall, there _will be_ another to take my place… maybe not now, or any time in the foreseeable future, but they will be overcome. _The realization gave him a small amount of comfort, though he couldn't quite say why. Whether or not they were defeated was one thing, but how many would _die_ before then was quite another.

Already, they'd begun something too terrible to think about.

Somehow he found his way to them without having to search too much, seeking out the life forces he knew were there, and offering aide where he could. In all actuality, he would have much preferred to help more before fighting, but this could not be. 

Like some horrible production, it was all playing out as he remembered it, and when he found the twins, Seventeen held a man, near dead, by the throat, nearly one hundred stories from the ground as he tortured the man. Whether he realized it or not, Trunks' heart contorted at the sight, and he attacked blindly, not thinking where any of this would get him or the man. The androids, however, were expecting just that.

 "Well, well, well," Eighteen remarked simply, pushing Trunks higher in the air just as he got his hands on the victim. "Look what we've got here…"

Seventeen smirked. "A lost warrior and his pet," he laughed, unresponsive to Trunks' energy assaults. They were as carefully aimed as he could make them, but there was little he could do while holding someone much larger than he, and Trunks knew he rant the risk of injuring the man further simply by keeping him here. _"Do_ be careful, Super Saiyajin, we wouldn't want you to die before your friends got here…"

_That_ stopped him faster than any physical assault could have. "Leave them _out_ of this, Seventeen!" he snapped, glaring at the android with an undiluted sense of distrust, hate, and some amount of fear. They'd always been want to distract him with painful words during a fight, and this more than anything else they could have done brought him to a new level of skill. Unfortunately, this _also_ brought him to distraction, just as Eighteen proved, flying into him with enough force to shatter his right arm and leave him dazed as the man, one of the few survivors of the day, fell to his doom.

Laughing at Trunks' dilemma and pain, Seventeen and his twin quickly joined forces, using a technique Gohan had referred to as a 'double.' The two advanced with enough speed to keep Trunks' attention, but he could _never_ be sure if one was hiding behind the other, or if that missing twin would come from another direction. It was a simple technique if one had the speed and ability to perform it, and the sheer number of possibilities left their opponent guessing, no matter if he or she recognized the plan or not. But they knew more about him than he would have liked, and both knew he would not stay still for such an attack, and that he would undoubtedly try to save the man before he hit the earth.  So Trunks had very few choices indeed, and the _only one_ his conscience would let him make was the one that would lead him into a trap he'd felt coming. But there was no way he could stop it. This man's life was in his hands, and no matter how slim the chance of saving him was, he would take it without regard to the risk he put himself in.

_Stupid teenager…_ he thought to himself, vaguely amused as his course of action, but remained all the more determined to save this person, this man who had a life, a family to go home to. _Never caring how much harm they do themselves…_

Well, when forced into a decision, all he could do was hope for the best, and try and take advantage of the ones that _made_ the trap. When it seemed everything was falling into place, they would get cocky, over confident, and prone to making mistakes they would not have made otherwise. Besides, this particular snare could very well work both ways…with a little improvising; something could definitely be made to work. And when it came to finding things to work off of, Trunks knew exactly what to do.

It was risky, with little opportunity for mishap, but he would have to manage. After all, it wasn't like he had an infinite amount of time to come up with a plan. As expected, he dove for the falling man at a break-neck speed, hoping against all odds that he'd find a loop hole in their plan that wouldn't be used against him. Unfortunately for Trunks, the double technique was of two vantage points, where one twin, Seventeen, he thought, careened after him from above, the other remained unseen, hidden somehow. Whether Eighteen was behind a building, or merely ages above his head, Trunks didn't know. Unexpectedly he veered in the opposite direction, hooting up and out, past Seventeen, and then down again, coming towards the man as he steadily gained speed and momentum. _If I don't get him quickly, this will end in _both_ of us hitting something, and while I might survive that, he would not._

There should have been some intervention at this time, from Seventeen or his sister, but there came none. It was as if everything around him had paused, giving him blessed _time, _enough to catch the man by the arms before either android made an entrance.

As he caught him, sure to catch the tortured victim by the arms instead of waist, making certain he kept his neck safe and supported as he dared. As it was, simply by _catching _him caused quite a bit of impact. For while his body wanted to keep moving, there was one undeniable force, but ironically unproven, keeping him from doing such, causing an upward trend that carried through his arms, but the restraint being practiced similarly  met resistance. The result ended with two sickening cracks as the man's arms broke. Thankfully, his neck and spine remained intact, so his goal was accomplished. He was alive, and now he'd have a chance of actually _surviving _the rest of this damned incident. 

Laughter met his ears, not silence. " 'Fool me once, shame on you,'" Seventeen quipped, quoting an old proverb Trunks had heard a few times before, usually from his mother. Trunks didn't' have the time to wonder what he meant, for just as he was about to get _out_ of there, a heavy body rammed into him, jarring him and loosening his hold on the man he held. Cursing under his breath, Trunks stared in awkward amazement, trying to become less dazed and fuzzy before another attack followed its predecessor. " 'Fool me twice, shame on me,'" the blatant merriment in his voice was more than evident, it rang in the depths of each word, and tainted the air with the foul stench that Trunks could never place. 

Eighteen had come from behind, attacking not Trunks himself, but the man he held, trying to strike blows that would _never_ heal, that would break his mind and spirit as much as it could harm his body. Trunks was at a severe disadvantage here, their numbers were greater, and singularly they would be able to take him out. With both of them, he had little chance of coming out of this unscathed. Their hands were free, and they remained unencumbered, whereas Trunks tried desperately to keep his hold on a man much taller and broader than he while simultaneously fighting two creatures beyond his strength.

In that moment, someone decided to put his radio to good use. "TRUNKS! Are you _listening to us?" _Alex, naturally, was screaming his lungs out, trying to get the young scientist's attention and successfully distracting him. _…I forgot there were disadvantages to this device,_ he thought grimly, trying to bite back a scream as he was pummeled from front and back.

The only limbs he had free were his legs, and while that mattered very little on the ground, in the air anything that could move was an advantage. Trunks wasn't likely to overlook that.  "Busy," he croaked into the receiver, tasting blood as he licked his lips. _Why…?_ He wondered, annoyed and somewhat crestfallen. _Something tells me this is not a good sign. _

 "Oh look, Trunks-kun has friends on the line," Seventeen cooed, rolling his eyes in amused frustration. "You really should devote more of your attention to _us, _kid. We're the ones you're entertaining, not them." Eighteen's expression did not change, and she kept up her assault, not paying much attention to either the twin or the voices coming across the transmitter. Seventeen either didn't seem to notice his sister's lack of attention, or didn't care, and continued his conversation without regard to her. "You're not much of a host, now are you?" he laughed, patting Trunks' hair with so-called 'affection.' 

In response, Trunks laid one well aimed blow to Seventeen's nose, successfully distracting him long enough to gain some distance before Eighteen pulled him back into place, catching hold of his shirt and jerking he and the man back where they'd been moments before. Frustrated, Trunks ignored the shouts for him to give answers, noting in the back of his mind that it was mostly Alex's voice that carried through, and Nora's, both of whom had unusually high pitched voices when they wanted to be heard. They were loud, besides.

For what seemed like ages, they fought, getting nowhere and causing Trunks no small amount of discomfort as he strove for the relative safety of the ground. Never before had he wished to this extent that most humans were capable of flight, for as much as he wanted this man's life to be saved, he was costing him valuable maneuverability and forcing him to take blows he should have been able to dodge. Unbelievably, the man remained alive, breathing shallowly even under the most severe amounts of strain, managing to function past all Trunks' expectations. It was marvelous to behold, and certainly inspiring. If one man could hold on this long, there was no reason he should tire, not when a being such as this fought for life even as Trunks fought for freedom, safety, and indeed, existence.

So impossibly he found his way to the ground, with no small amount of damage to himself, but little enough to the man. He could survive, and with luck, he would. Despite everything, Trunks smiled, looking the twins in the eyes as he flew back to meet them, unaware of everything but their mirrored frowns of annoyance, not noticing the laughter that danced in their eyes. "No more hostage, eh?" Eighteen asked, pouting a little. "Guess you _finally_ figured it out; we don't give a damn about you or your humans…the possibility of hurting one is just a bonus."

Seventeen laughed, and nodded. "Bonus points, that is," he clarified, materializing behind him as if by magic. Trunks whirled about in surprise, ready to face an assault from two angles. Instead, only one took the initiative. Eighteen took him by the waist and threw him forcibly into the air, aiming for an office building that doubtless held hundreds of lives.

The final puzzle piece…his failure, and ultimate defeat at their hands.

Unable to keep his momentum from building, and too worn to influence his path, Trunks would have careened into the side, toppling the thing like a stack of blocks a child would make. But these were no children, and their target was much more important than a few pieces of wood; human lives were at stake, and the amount of damage this one accident could cause…well. It was best not to think about it.

And yet…

Somehow, miraculously, he did not hit.

Once again, as he had when entering this planet's atmosphere, he felt a pressure too familiar to be described as foreign, but too unusual to be recognized instantaneously. He was slowed significantly, directed in an altogether different direction, away from civilian life and into a tower that was blessedly empty.

The wall he collided with shattered, as he expected, causing a literal landslide as the building tumbled in on itself. He'd hit in such a way that kept everything in a confined pile, barely sprawling into the surrounding land, but stories high, with Trunks buried underneath a good deal of it.

 "Wh--t j--st --ened?" Michael asked, his voice filled with static over the radio that'd gone into a few too many pieces to be completely clear.

Trunks stared up at the rubble surrounding him, and wondered that himself. "…I hit a building…" he murmured, hoping they'd be able to understand him. Looking at the shards of cement, glass and metal, he very much doubted they could, and he mostly got mostly indecipherable words and a long few buzzing noises more than intelligible conversation. He could barely move, and it took quite some time for him to regain sense of himself enough to get out of that grave. Indeed, he felt that nearly an hour had passed before he gathered his strength.

He moved the blocks aside with renewed determination, not so much bothering with physical handling them as he blasted the rubble into harmless specks as he found his way out. Predictably, the androids were above and waiting, hushed as they'd been the first time. Silent and death, and perhaps wiling to take up the Grim Reaper's task if it meant getting rid of him and everything he loved.

But there were more surprises in store for him, it seemed, but these were not in the form of enemies, but allies. When he emerged, he saw suits of Allied make, finding their way towards him with unexpected ease. "How…?" Trunks asked, dumbfounded.

Joel's voice came cheekily over the transmitter, sounding a great deal closer than before. "We snitched a few suits, not as good as ours, to be sure, and followed the radio waves. When we're going in the right direction, we get less static." He informed him, happy to explain something to Trunks when it'd so often been the other way around.

Another voice, flattened by the strange system being used, filled his ears. "We copied the design you made for the receivers, too," Michael began, and when looking from one suit to another, Trunks was unable to discern who was who, despite the radical differences in everyone's fighting style. "And we completely severed any possible links these suits have to the Allies," he sounded particularly smug about that feat. "So we should just be _help, _and not the pig's blood trail that led the hunter, or in our case, the Allies, directly to us."

Trunks laughed tiredly, glad they'd been able to do something of use, and pleased they'd learned so much in the last few weeks. "You've done well," he complimented, and set his gaze on the enemy. "But remember what I said…not even with _your _suits could you  hope to defeat them…but you're welcome to try. However, as soon as yours is damaged, get _out of here, _do you understand me?"

He could practically hear the defiance simmering underneath the supposedly compliant silence. "You're not exactly in the best of shape, Trunks, maybe _you _should leave." No one but Alex had the courage, or even the desire to make that comment but he.

Trunks had to roll his eyes. "I'm Saiyajin. You're not. I'll live. You won't." he paused momentarily, waiting for that to sink in. "Understood?" that had to be the most blatant racial slur he'd ever made in his entire life, but if it kept them alive, Trunks didn't give one wit about politeness, or being politically correct.

Dutifully, they all replied the expected answers, but something told Trunks it'd take a hell of a lot  more than a warning to get them out of here, and he was afraid that 'something' would come in the form of a body, most likely one of their friends.

So far, things were _not_ looking good.

From above,  there was not a sound, not even the passing of wind as the two androids flew closer, until they saw eye to eye with the half Saiyajin. "Well, Trunks," Eighteen noted calmly, looking from he to the suits steadily coming closer. "A sacrifice is all very good and well," not surprisingly, her voice suggested otherwise, as it was completely devoid of emotion, "but you should know, your friends will _not_ help you."

Seventeen smirked, knowing the truth behind that statement. "Indeed. Although I admit, I'm getting a bit bored with the situation as it stands," he drawled, looking around with an altogether disinterested feel about him. "How about we liven things up a bit?" From the two twins there radiated a brilliant light, slowly gaining intensity as time passed. Trunks stared in confusion, the sense of apprehension and some recognition filling his mind. He'd seen this once before…only once, and that had been from a distance too great to actually qualify as 'seeing.' No, this was felt, not seen.

And Trunks clearly remembered where he'd encountered this before.

Where it all ended.

Where it'd began.

_Gohan. _Trunks stared in shock; he'd thought they'd _not_ go to such extremes now, when they'd kept him alive all these years. _This was show they killed Gohan…_ and amongst that brilliant light, something began once more, a deadly technique that left only the strong standing, and the weak dead and far beyond 'gone.' Nothing. He could do nothing to stop them,  and if they targeted his friends, there was absolutely _nothing_ he could do to end their course of action.

And yet…

And yet he knew they would not leave him to face this awesome power by himself. Not even to save their lives, thereby preserving those of their people. He hadn't asked them. They'd just responded to an unvoiced plea for _justice, _and purity on this planet he dared not call Earth.

In his heart, he knew he wouldn't-- couldn't --survive this day. None of them would, except, perhaps, the androids. Trunks lifted his head, and calmly let his defiance show in his eyes, darker than the night itself, until he transformed, pulling all the color towards the center and lighting until they shone a blue green that rivaled the sea, and nothing, no emotion, _naught_ shown through.

And then he smiled.

He might not kill the two, but he'd give them a hell of a lot to remember him by. 

Through it all, Trunks felt a power growing unlike anything he'd ever sensed before, or come to familiarize himself with. It was similar to the breach that brought the twins here, but more manageable in nature, perhaps a cousin to that very rift. In his mind, Trunks knew this was wrong, that it _should not_ happen like this, but he looked past that, and concentrated solely on destroying these two _things _that had so ruined his life, and those of his family.

_Gohan._

_My father._

_My mother…_

These people needed vengeance, alive or dead, their souls demanded justice. Nobody should be forced to live in fear, least of all those proud, strong people who upheld the world.

Not his family.

Not his teacher.

For this, the twins would pay, and they would pay dearly.

Without warning, Trunks attacked, pushing the two androids aside with a  flying kick that had little to do with force and _everything _to do with timing. They'd expected him to erect a shield, or at the very least attack them with chi, not an all out physical assault. He was tired, broken, and he ached, so it was the exact opposite of what his body would have wanted, so he went with it. The results were pleasantly rewarding, and the twins' energy was pulled down to something more manageable.

The light, however, remained.

And to this light, Trunks' attention was drawn, as energy he recognized just as easily and as well as his own emerged from a rip in the fabric of reality.

His mother.

*****

tbc…

The next chapter will hopefully be up by the 25th of January. 

Two chapters remain, and two 'specials' that aren't really part of the main story. *Smiles* hopefully they'll be done _soon._

I do apologize for being a day late, but in my defense, it takes a hell of a lot of time and paper, to get these chapters from the upstairs to the downstairs. (I think I may have mentioned it, but my disk drive is _broken, _so the upstairs comp. is completely segregated.)

Thanks go out to Raen! You're definitely one _consistent _reviewer!  Really cool thing to be.  

Comments, criticism, rants and other such reviews are always appreciated. 


	13. Book II: Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: **Dragon ball Z and all affiliated characters belong to their creator, and quite possibly some other people I don't know about as well. The original chara's and the AU world are mine, naturally, and so is the plot line.

**Warnings:** Violence. Probably some curse words. Angst. Possibly some typos. Last chapter before the Epilogue. 

Losing Innocence

                     by Taes

Book II

Chapter 7 

For a few moments, all Trunks could do was stare, blinking in amazement at where the light had been. In his heart, he'd known there would come a day when he'd face the androids on their terms, not his, and on that day they would all decide the fate of a planet. He hadn't consciously guessed it'd be here, but he _knew_ he'd fight them, one way or another. Perhaps it was pessimism that told him this, but all the time he'd been here, he'd been expecting something like this to happen for a long, long time. 

What he _hadn't _expected was his mother to be anywhere _near_ the battlefield. 

Neither, apparently, had the androids.

Trunks, however, didn't notice this, and glared angrily at the only two, in his mind, who could possibly be responsible for bringing his family here. They seemed to expect this, and as a result, their expressions were schooled into those of mild amusement, and some small amount of pride. "Wouldn't want your dear mother to wonder about you forever," Eighteen purred, a mocking smile upon her face.

 "…after all, there should be _somebody_ left to burry you, hmm?" Seventeen finished, laughing outright at the expression Trunks wore. Not even bothering to reply to that statement, Trunks prepared an all out assault that would _hopefully _distract the androids enough to give his friends and mother the time they needed to get out.

Under the cover of many, many chi blasts, and speaking low enough so that his words wouldn't carry far, Trunks manually hooked the appropriate wires back together with one hand as the other directed energy attacks. He was well on his guard, but if one of the twins tried to sneak up on him, it wasn't likely that he'd be able to protect himself well. Fortunately, the headpiece had retained minimal damage, and he had everything he needed directly at his disposal, so it only took a few minutes of fumbling around to get the thing working.

 "Alex, Fred, Elizabeth, and Michael, I need help," he murmured, hoping they'd be able to understand what he said. "You may not have noticed," he began dryly, "but there's been another rift," he heard amused laughter through the earpieces, and thought he heard a few muttered affirmations before there was silence again. "…and there's a blue…uh…ship looking thing hovering about three kilos to my right. I need you four, Alex, Michael, Fred and Elizabeth," he was giving them orders, but there was a distinctive warning in his voice, "to escort her _out_ of here as discretely as you can." Naturally, there were more protests, but not wanting to waste any more time, Trunks pushed on, not heeding their cries. "I want three teams here, understood? And you're all going to be moving chaotically at suicidal speeds so that they'll _hopefully_ not notice when four of you leave." It was time to change tactics.

Unfortunately, before he could begin suggestions for how they could go about that, the twins got tired of long distance fire, and Trunks soon found he was aiming at empty space. Trunks wheeled about in surprise, trying not to let the confusion he felt show on his face, and hoping to Kami that his mother would survive this. Even as he tried to come up with some sort of defensive tactics, Alex's voice poured over the radio. The kid was shouting questions at Trunks even as the four suits made his way towards his mother. He may not have been happy about it, but he'd do as Trunks asked, even without an explanation._ Loyalty is a wonderful thing,_ Trunks found himself thinking. Alex, on the other hand, was not in the least bit satisfied. "Can't you explain why this is _important?" _he complained.

Growling in frustration, Trunks continued to search for the androids. "She's my mother, all right? She can help fix the damn suits if you just get her _out_ of here!" he hissed, just in time to see a huge pillar of smoke rise from the mountain of rubble behind him, covering everything in a thick cloud of dust that made it impossible to see.

He'd seen this before…

 "Peek-a-boo," the rich alto voice from above could only be one person, and even as he swung into a defensive posture, the sense of being alone came back to him. She was gone, but her laughter followed him all about this nightmare, and it was all he could do to keep moving. He remembered clearly now, they'd pulled this same maneuver on him once before, in an abandoned warehouse with hundreds of places to hide. They'd scared him badly, though he didn't like to admit it even now.

Her laughter followed him even as he tried to find cover, mingling with the echo of their mirth, sending Trunks into a whirlwind of confusion. It was as if they surrounded him, like they were impossibly in tens of places at once, mocking him, cornering him exactly as they had then. Angered by these tactics and more than willing to take his frustration out on the cause, Trunks tried desperately to keep his fear under control and to maintain a steady mind while they played some twisted form of hide-and-go-seek. Every now and again, a voice, a phrase, would come from behind or above, sending him into a frenzy as he tried to locate the source and attack it.

But they'd done this before, and though many times Trunks cursed his tendency to analyze every mistake he'd made, he could use that to his advantage. Hindsight is twenty-twenty, as they say, and all those times he'd thought of what he _could_ have done to them to turn this to his gain floated to the surface of his mind _now._

They were stuck in the cloud too, and their taunts could very well lead him to them.

Every noise they made would sound like beacons in the night, and without his sight, he would have to rely on this guide even more, which would heighten it to new extremes. And he knew for a fact that while the androids' senses had been enhanced, they weren't nearly as good as a Saiyajin's could be.

 "Nobody say a word," Trunks cautioned, knowing that every time he spoke, or his headpiece did, the androids would have a chance of finding him, and his plan needed every element of surprise he could get. "If this doesn't work, I'm good as dead…" he warned, hoping they understood the severity of this. "You may want to wait until the dust clears, or until we get out of here before you do anything." he paused, and listened. Nothing. They were probably listening to _him.. _Trunks tried not to sigh. _Damn. Now they know I'm up to something. _"If you're leaving, do so _now."_

Amused laugher met that remark, and out of the debris, a face loomed down at him, devoid of the light that complimented his features, Seventeen looked like a pale ghoul, a mockery of life. "Ever the hero," he sneered, and faded from view, slowly seeming to melt into the fog as he backed away. Trunks smiled. They always had loved to talk.

_This just might work._

Everything he'd ever been taught by Gohan, his mother, and life itself, told him this plan was most likely the stupidest thing he'd ever done. So his instincts told him it was exactly w hat he needed.

 "Trying to save you friends." Eighteen laughed quietly to herself, and the echo bounced off sharp pieces of rubble time and time again before fading even from his ears. _There._ Trunks aimed, and fired. Startled laughter met his ears, as he'd expected. _They just don't get it…_ Trunks mused, more than willing to let them think he was getting angry, and therefore out of control. Being thought of as predictable could very well give him an edge. Seventeen and Eighteen would be waiting for him to slip up and give into his anger, but today, they were wrong.

Following that voice, Trunks aimed one stream of fire after another at the increasingly amused android, intentionally missing just in case. It wouldn't do for them to discover _how_ he found them. Then they must might shut up, unlikely though that seemed. So he needed to keep them off their guard.

Breathing steadily, Trunks waited, patiently finding energy within himself the way Gohan had shown him, letting all emotions fade away as he focused, intent on his targets and the surroundings, aware of everything and singling nothing out. Piccolo had taught Trunks' teacher enough useful information to keep even the most ornery of pre-teens motivated and busy, and everything the green skinned Namek had given Gohan, the Son child had gifted Trunks.

Fortunately or not, Trunks had never really used all of it. He'd always focused more on the tactics Gohan had given him, changing those just enough to give the androids something new, but always following the 'rules' they knew he'd play by. Well.

There _were_ no rules today.

Time and time again, they moved about in random directions, taunting him with their words and revealing their location. To Trunks, it was all happening in the same instant, and each event bled into another in such a way that it became impossible to truly _know _how long it'd been since their last move. Time became inconsequential, and he concentrated to the best of his ability on keeping them on their feet and uneasy. 

They spun around him now, Trunks knew, and he did his best to keep track of their actual bodies, ignoring the 'ghosts' that loomed around him, despite the familiarity of the scene. Once again, he'd seen it all before, though the androids could not have known he'd dreamt of this. The one difference between this smoke laden atmosphere and his dream was that here there were copies of two people only, not friends and family he'd come to know, and neither twin hungered for his death as those things had. They laughed at him, cruel and mocking, their smiles bright as sunlight on snow.

Trunks smiled, and began to prepare.

Without warning he fired, just as the twins began to pick up speed. They stopped their murmurs of ghostly phrases, meant to put him on edge, and laid to rest their tales of torture and death, crying out in surprise and annoyance. Trunks laughed now, knowing they were blasted far enough _out_ of the smoke to be plunged into daylight while he remained here. If they wanted to play this game, he'd more than willingly comply. 

 "Well, looks like the kitten has got fangs after all," Seventeen called to his sister, more amused than chagrined. 

Eighteen shrugged, adding from an altogether different direction, "And claws."

Her twin sighed dramatically, and somehow Trunks knew the android was not alone any longer. Eyes widening in surprise, Trunks had tried to move out of the way as a wave of energy began to form. "Come out, come out…wherever you are…" the tenor cajoled, laughter filling every word. He was helpless to do anything as the energy they'd amassed soared toward him with remarkable speed, casting the dust aside and flinging him into the face of a building. Trunks moaned in dismay as his vision faded, knowing it'd be some time before he woke up.

Alex…you'd better bring them to safety… 

*****

 "Get your hands _off me!" _the surprisingly strong, irritated woman demanded. Throughout the entire flight there, they'd chased and wheedled her into moving as quickly as her 'ship' would allow, using a combination of scare tactics and dramatics to get her safely out of the vicinity. Naturally, they hadn't the time for idle conversations, and this person, supposedly Trunks' mother, had absolutely no idea what was goin on, thereby becoming violent, to say the least.

At last, the four teenagers released their grip on the struggling woman safely deposited in the hangar, where she hopefully would be unable to get out. Alex frowned with annoyance, rolling his eyes. "If you'd just _calm_ _down, _we'd be able to explain a few things!" he glared at her, completely oblivious to the deadly promise lingering in her eyes.

Elizabeth smiled gently, and took off her helmet. Naturally, they didn't bother wearing the cumbersome things normally, but in outdated suits like the ones they'd been using, it was almost necessary. "Hi," she greeted, shouldering the three boys aside. "We're friends of your son, Trunks." She began, much to Alex's extreme annoyance. Bulma calmed down a little, interest lighting in her blue eyes.

Bulma straightened her suit with one hand in perfect ease, and with the other she fixed her hair, all in the space of a moment. Feeling more prepared, and thus more confident, she looked directly into Elizabeth's eyes, ignoring the boys completely. "And why would my son tell you people to kidnap me?" she demanded, distrust shining clearly in her bright eyes.

Fuming, Alex paced from one end of the room to the next, altogether unwilling to stay still or help in any way with this 'orientation.' In his mind, they didn't have time to do any of this, and whatever they wasted here, they weren't likely to get back in the battlefield.

 "He _didn't. _And we didn't." he complained, uninterested in the look Bulma gave him.

She snorted. "So what do you call that, huh? An _armed escort?!_" every bit of temper Trunks had shown flickered now in her voice as she screeched most ungracefully at them, uncomfortably reminding all present of typhoons and other disastrous storms. Noting that none of them was going to answer that question, Bulma sighed with irritation, not in the least happy. And then she noticed the suits.

There was a complete transformation in her appearance and attitude. From the look on her face, those colossal machines did not only entrance her, they softened her completely, and from the way she examined them, she recognized some of the pieces that made up the puzzle. Her hands strayed towards the work table, pitifully bare in comparison to what most scientists were accustomed to working with, but to Bulma, it was just enough. There was a programming pen like she'd used while teaching her son, and in the suits, doubled over and laid open for better access, she saw the intricate details only one person could have made. "Trunks did this," she murmured, walking towards the things with a wavering step. Her hands traced the mechanisms, and absently she began to connect the wires and rearrange what dangling pieces there were.

Amused, the three boys exchanged glances, noting the same scientific dedication in this bizarre young woman were perceptible in Trunks. Elizabeth smiled. "Yeah. He designed and made every one of them…nearly from scrap. There's one for each of us, too. It's really impressive when you think about it; he's made suits that fit each of us as well as our own skin."

Touching the hand of the suit she'd been looking at, Bulma noted the features and the simple, yet so _familiar_ color scheme. "Goku." She whispered, and bit her lip in a mixture of confusion and emotions too unbearable to show. At the unusual display of regret and hope, the teenagers exchanged glances once again. "You people pilot these?" she asked simply, looking from one suit to the next with undisguised interest.

 "Yeah," Fred replied, smiling somewhat.

Bulma sighed, pulling on a pair of thick gloves and picked up the programming pen. "I'll have these fixed for you in an hour," she promised, and set to work.

The four teens looked at one another dubiously, but shrugged, certain that 'one hour' would stretch into an unusually long time. Trunks may have been able to fix _one_ suit in that long, provided it was in some manner of working condition to start with, but not ten. True, work had already been done, but there was simply too much for a single person to fix in that period.

So, for the time being, they argued among themselves about their course of action, unsure of what to do. Something told them they shouldn't leave quite yet, but impatient as ever, Alex wanted to be out of there, certain they could help win the fight they knew to be going on. Over the radio, they heard little, occasionally murmured voices of the androids, but not once did they hear Trunks call on them, or one of their comrades. It was eerily quiet.

They'd gathered around the little transmitter now as they had earlier that day, and just as before, they were not willing to sit around and do _nothing. _Time passed without their realizing it, and through the maze of indecipherable clamor, they began to piece together exactly what was happening. So, when the radio picked something up that could only be an explosion of huge proportions, they all stopped, and even the quiet sounds of machines being fixed ceased.

And then, they heard a voice that chilled them to the bone, despite the civility and good-natured charm heard throughout the connection. "Good evening, all," Seventeen began, a smile in his voice. "I'd like you to know that the thick, ominous clouds you've been seeing today appear to have _cleared up_." With a healthy amount of amusement he chuckled, and seemed to take a moment to gather his thoughts. "There's no chance of showers, though we may be experiencing electrical storms or even earthquakes later on tonight." With the flippant air of one announcing clear , sunny skies, he continued, speaking with the characteristic lilt and strangely monotonous accent all news reporters seem to share. "I'd like to warn our listeners that it's gotten _very_ dangerous outside, and we've had more than a few complaints of injuries due to the unusual weather. For your own safety, I suggest  you congregate in huge masses to make better targets for whatever's causing this. Be sure to create mass mayhem to better promote panic, fear and doubt in whatever savior may arise." He laughed, and cleared his throat, taking on the 'sophisticated' tone of late night radio hosts, though he couldn't entirely get rid of the amusement in his voice. "Thank you for tuning in to station one-hundred-point-seventeen, and have a nice day."

With that, the transmission abruptly ended, leaving everyone staring in mute horror at the receiver.

Michael grabbed the transmitter. "Someone explain the situation!" he demanded, speaking unusually quickly for someone of his temper.

One hesitant voice answered, "Guys, stay aware…they've disappeared." That could only be Nora. Only she could relate those grim events so calmly. "Trunks, too. He vanished when they threw him into a building. Don't leave the premises, they're most likely coming your way, possibly after you guys or his mother. Be prepared." She cut off then, and without any hints of the other groups' positions, much less their course of action, the four teens looked more than a little startled.

 "What the hell was that--that--" Alex floundered for words, and pounded the table in frustration. "Radio broadcast! How'd they tap into our system?"

Rob sighed. "They didn't. they just took the one Trunks had…probably after he, uh, landed." His voice carried an air of bewilderment. "Those two were moving too fast for us to see, guys. They could be anywhere…"

Anywhere… 

In Bulma's experience, 'anywhere' when dealing with the androids usually meant 'soon to be here, terrorizing me and my family.' She cleared her throat. 

 "Kids, something tells me we're going to be having company. Why don't you help me make the place presentable?" she suggested, raising her eyebrows meaningfully. For their part, they just stared at her. Bulma fumed. "They're coming _here, _you idiots!" she screeched. 

The pilots were beginning to see where Trunks got his temper, and short tolerance for failure or misunderstanding.

Seething with frustration, she took one long breath, and sighed deeply. "Okay. Listen, kids. I'm sorry I yelled…" she didn't sound the least bit sorry. "I've just gotten off the most earsplitting ride anyone's _ever_ taken to get here, and I find my son's half dead with exhaustion." She picked up speed as she went on, but her voice remained surprisingly subdued, compared to the hysterics she'd expressed earlier. "You people kidnap me before I get a single _word _with him, and then I get to work with these…machines…that with the right operators, could very well destroy any world they came across." She looked both admiring and annoyed at that statement. "The two things that have murdered every one of my friends and brought my home to ruin have apparently left my son for dead, and for all I know, that's exactly what he is. You'll have to pardon my temper." 

Polite applause met her little speech, and before anyone could react, a voice cut through the sudden silence. "Very well done, Ms. Briefs." Eighteen congratulated, her rich alto filling the space entirely. Seventeen nodded his agreement, half bowing towards Bulma to show his appreciation. Between them, they held one limp, decidedly unmoving figure with skin as white as bone.

 "Yes, I especially liked the bit about murdering," Seventeen added, smirking. Bulma had gone pale, her eyes trained on the body supported only by these cruel beings of undeniable beauty.

Eighteen smiled, noting where the woman gazed. "Oh, I almost forgot." She looked at her brother, and the smile that never quite touched her eyes deepened. "We brought you something."

Amusement filled Seventeen's face, cruel and malicious as he was. "A gift." He clarified, and his eyes focused on Bulma.

 "Hope you like it," Eighteen laughed, and dropped the body to the floor. 

With that, they were gone.

Bulma stared at the limp figure, heart in her eyes as she ran forward, pushing through the teenagers with remarkable ease. She checked the pulse, and listened for breathing while searching for any sign of injury that would prevent her from moving hi. Though a few things had changed, Bulma recognized her son when she saw him, and her grief was unimaginable. "Oh, Trunks…" she breathed, dimly staring at the place where the androids had been, only moments before. "What the hell did you do to him?!" she demanded, knowing that if the androids heard her, they wouldn't bother to answer.

Trunks, whom she'd thought to be unconscious, stirred at her voice. "Didn't…" he coughed, opening his eyes. "My fault."

Bulma looked as if she weren't sure if she should cry or strangle him. "Are you _protecting_ them?" she asked, dumbfounded.

 "No. I'm fine." He searched her face for some form of forgiveness, and in his mother's eyes, he found it, though she lacked the understanding he needed her to have. "Water?" he asked piteously, and Elizabeth, kind Elizabeth, brought him two pitchers full, with the other three behind her, carrying similar burdens. Trunks  nearly laughed with relief. Instead, he simply took one from her, murmuring a 'thank you' for courtesy's sake. As soon as he felt refreshed enough to continue, he met his mother's plaintive gaze. "I can't explain now, but…"

Bulma sighed, and put one cool hand on his forehead. "You went back."

Uncomfortable, Trunks looked down. "Yeah."

Upset, and grieving for the innocence her son had lost in his journey for understanding, Bulma wished she had better prepared him for the pain, suffering and heartache that came with the warrior's ways. "Tell me what you need to, and we'll worry about the rest after this is dealt with." 

Her smile was all he needed to forget the tragedy he'd experienced, at least for the moment, and he gladly told her of his plan. Throughout it all, she listened attentively, not interrupting, not even with questions until she was certain he was done. "We're going to need more parts than I've got on hand…more than we could get in months." He shook his head; resigning himself to a way of life he'd lived for quite some time. With luck, they could get them soon, without the mess he'd anticipated, and without losing any more lives.

Bulma smiled wryly, amused at his choice of words. How many times had she said something similar? And how often had he revealed a stepping stone to shorten the journey? _Too many to count, _she decided, and left it at that. "We could use my ship." She suggested, blue eyes wide and confident.

Trunks was taken aback, not comprehending for a few moments. "What…?"

Laughing at the expression, Bulma grinned, happy to contribute even a little to the plan that had begun to take shape. "We can take my ship apart, and use what's there." She said, practical as ever. "I built it based on the chasm the androids disappeared from, with a few things in common with the time machine." She winked. "Man made universe-hopper, at your service, Trunks." Shrugging almost lazily, she continued. "It has everything we'd need. After all, I'm the one who built the damned thing, so if it didn't, I'd be the first to know." She grinned cheerily at him.

 "No." Trunks rejected the idea almost immediately, shaking his head vehemently. "I don't know if this is going to work. If it doesn't, you and the others need to get _out_ of here."

Bulma frowned, annoyed. "Trunks, listen, I know you might not like it, but it's _my_ machine! If I want to tear it into scrap, that's my decision." She glowered. "Not yours."

Sighing, Trunks shook his head. "The time machine's broken, Mom. Your ship could very well be the _only_ way you get back home alive." 

Bulma snorted. Her son was trying to scare her with the prospect of death, when she faced it nearly every day. _That_ was certainly something she would never have imagined. "Sweetie, I know you want your friends to be safe as much as you want me to be, and I can honor that. But you have to remember, you don't decide what we are not to do!" she breathed a frustrated sigh, trying to regain the calm she'd _almost_ achieved earlier. "If it works, we won't have to worry about how long we stay here. We can live on this planet for a few years, or how_ever_ long it takes until we get the supplies we need to send us home. _This _is what matters." She shook her head. "I thought you knew that."

Pain flashed in her son's eyes, and for a moment, Bulma thought she saw something lingering there, like a sadness that had never before existed in him. 

 "Mom…" he looked pleadingly at her, trying to get her to see _why_ he needed her to be safe. But if she didn't see, then what more could he do than what he'd been doing already?

Someone cleared their throat,  distracting the feuding two just long enough for the speaker to interrupt. "Use my suit. I'm sure it has everything you could need…"

Trunks stared. "No. You can't--"

Annoyance flared in the youth's dark eyes, and for a moment, Bulma thought he looked similar to one arrogant, foolhardy prince she'd once known. "Don't give me any of your bullshit, Trunks. You may be our 'leader' of sorts, but you do _not_ have dominion over my decisions quite yet." He tried to smile to lessen the sting his words brought on, but the anger was too strong in is blood. "So sit down, shut up, and let us do our jobs." He grinned.

Trunks had to laugh. Alex had undoubtedly been waiting to say _that_ for quite some time. "We need you at your best," he warned.

Alex snorted. "You know I'm a good enough pilot to be _able_ to do my job no matter what suit I'm handling." She shrugged easily, but there was doubt in the way he held himself. Right now, he needed reassurance, not criticism. "And I'm a hell of a lot more stubborn than you are when I really want what I'm after." He added, rather unnecessarily. 

Bulma looked at him skeptically. "You're sure you want to do this."

Rolling his eyes, Alex nodded. "Of course I am."

Nodding her approval, Bulma smiled at the young man. "Right then. We'll get to work right away,"

Trunks bit his lip. "Sorry, Mom, but I can't give you much help." He murmured, and fished a capsule out of his pocket. Bulma raised an eyebrow, and waited expectantly, not the slightest bit phased by the resulting 'explosion' a the others were. She looked even more surprised than they at the contents of the capsule, not having expected the colossal filing cabinet that nearly overflowed with papers. Trunks walked across the room, certainty in his steps as he selected a few tiny papers from the near-avalanche. Her eyes lit with interest when she noted the small, cramped writing alongside the diagrams that could only be one thing…

 "Blueprints?" she grinned like a child at Christmas after opening an unexpected, surprise present filled with everything she could have asked for, but hadn't. Trunks smiled, and the stars in his eyes sparkled with amusement. He nodded, and handed the majority of them over.

 "These are the ones I eventually went with," he murmured, handing her the two sheets he'd withheld. "Remember those designs Gohan and I came up with?" he gestured to a small space on the paper, and her smile widened in wonder. "You might be able to use the others, but…" he shrugged. "I made notes on the side as to why I didn't use the sloppy copies."

Peering over their shoulders, Alex snorted.  "Notes? You mean those tiny little dust specks are _words?"_

Bulma laughed before turning to her less than amused son. "So what will you be doing that'll keep you from translating these 'dust specks' for me?" his eyes strayed towards the hatch, and it was then that the pilots realized _how_ the androids had gotten in. It had been ripped off without so much as a sound, suggesting that they'd opened it with the greatest of ease. "Oh…" Bulma decided she was better off not knowing.

 "I'll be distracting them." He said, simply enough.

Fred grinned. "Yeah. Seeing that none of us are scientific geniuses, and about as likely to do as much harm as good we'll be off as well." He winked. "Distracting evil androids, ya know."

Rolling his eyes, Alex nodded. "Yeah. That and if you keep me locked up in here for any longer, I'll take back my gift and get outa here on my own." He trailed off, suggesting that he intended no such thing.

Trunks sighed. This was going to be one long day…

*****

 "My, my, my, you seem to be sweating profusely. Is that a sign of exertion, fatigue, or a long lost desire to start your own water company?" Eighteen quipped, seemingly amused at the pitiable attempts Trunks had been making.

 "We've only been fighting for a few hours, buddy boy," Seventeen noted, laughing at Trunks' irritated expression. "You've gotten soft." Manifesting behind the boy, he took hold of his arms in such a way that twisted the bones just short of breaking, and had Trunks screaming for release even as he attempted to murder the twin who held him so. "Didn't Gohan teach you better than that?" he chided, tsking quietly.

Trunks growled, exasperated beyond measure. They'd been fighting all day, and even with his friends to back him up, all this was more than enough to pull what energy Trunks had out of him. He was being sure to keep in contact with them, mainly by the makeshift radio his mother had supplied him with, but it was more than just the physical strain that had him gasping for breath. Fighting for control of his arms, he threw his weight against Seventeen, hoping to distract him long enough to gain release, or at the very least, the opportunity for such. This was not the case, however, and his efforts were frustrated when Seventeen merely changed positions, easing the slight discomfort Trunks had been causing against his wrists, and successfully putting the demi-Saiyajin back in place. 

Now it seemed there was nothing for it but waiting, and hoping the androids would tire of this game and release him.

Eighteen smiled scornfully. "Oh, poor little lostling… doesn't know what to do or where to go without Mummy, Daddy, and teacher…"

Trunks seethed, and in a moment's desperation, called forth the energy needed to create a blast more _bright_ than powerful. It was a reflection of the sun, as brilliant and beautiful as could be, but with clouds, debris, and the utterly poor atmosphere this planet sported, it was more annoying than painful, and served only to irritate his captor.

 "Ouch. Somebody get a medic…" Seventeen murmured dryly. "I think I've gone blind." Eighteen snorted in amusement, obviously in agreement with her twin at this point. The only one who'd managed to pull that little stunt off to its true potential was the three eyed freak, not his friends, though they all tried a multitude of tactics, including that one, before finally succumbing to their might. It rather amused them to see Trunks trying something his predecessors had counted on so greatly, only to have found it was no use.

The air around them shimmered for a moment, and before they could do much of anything, those damned _pilots_ launched yet another attack that stank of Saiyajin influence. Startled and annoyed, Seventeen was forced to either destroy every suit and cost them a few 'playmates' or release Trunks to safely bat them aside. The only reason those pilots weren't ash was because of the pathetic amount of trust the half-Saiyajin placed in them. If there was one thing the androids knew regarding the annoyingly persistent race, it was to keep their loved ones alive; kill them, and you had an angry, defiant force to be reckoned with, usually possessing little or no self restraint when it came to preserving their lives. And that kind of fighter was much more difficult to beat, mock, and otherwise dishearten than Trunks was on a normal basis.

No, it was generally a good idea to keep the little worm's friends alive and prevent that little…disaster…from happening.

Instead, he released the boy, and swirled Trunks out of the way as the suits flung past him, the pilots, unable to turn around fast enough to keep up, were perfectly capable of making certain they didn't crash. Trunks, on the other hand, though severely weakened by the fighting of the day, was more than competent enough to catch up, and that's exactly what he did.

 "Why do you even bother?" Seventeen was just pulling his strings now, knowing full well why the idiotic young man put up with humans. It was in his nature; like the one before him, Trunks was brought up to be honorable, giving, and merciful. To the androids, it was an utter and complete waste of potential. "These humans, these pilots' combined force isn't even enough to match your pathetic teacher."

Trunks felt himself stiffening unconsciously, painfully aware of how Gohan's battle had ended. 

 "And you _know_ what happened when you tried to help him," Eighteen smiled patiently, waiting for the boy's defenses to come up as they always did. He would push for combat to preserve Gohan's honor, they knew, and when he did so, he was as good as a man fighting blind.

Her twin mimicked her expression, borrowing the air of an ancient teacher spent too much time bestowing gifts of lessons upon students to really _think_ about what learning meant, and how it could be interpreted. "What do you think will happen to these…creatures, when you couldn't even help him?"

_No. Not this time…_ Trunks thought, trying to separate himself from the pain he felt, even now, after all this time, at Gohan's loss. _You won't make me lose because of him! That…wouldn't make him happy._

Today, it seemed, was a day for surprises and acting out as he never would have before. He was using tactics, all of them new, ones his adversaries had never seen before, ones he'd learned from his father, and the teachers of his trainer. Remembering the little sparring sessions he'd had in times of peace, Trunks could begin to fight on a whole new level. Those times, he knew, built the resistance of a warrior, and it was that more than anything else that gave the Z-Fighters strength. He would take their lessons, but would do so with caution, remembering their downfalls as much as their triumphs.

Out of many, one.

Easily feigning rage, he flung himself at Seventeen, assuming the state of awareness he had earlier, fully sensitive of _everything_ on the battlefield down to the smallest gnat. He felt his companions' presence as he'd never done before, and thus was able to work with them in new ways, all while restraining himself to keep from upsetting the ruse he'd taken so much time to put into place. Here, he could fight to the full extent his abilities allowed him, and because of his enhanced senses, he was able to achieve these techniques with minimal effort and strength.

He cornered one at a time, forcing the singular android to fight him without back up. Though he knew the were perfectly able to kill him this way, he knew they _wouldn't, _and it was possible that the sudden lack of assistance could put them off guard, and cause them to make more mistakes than they ought to have. While he busied one, the pilots kept charge of the other, not allowing them to do anything without murdering one of their numbers.

There was nothing to do but to fight, so fight he did, wasting time away even now as the sun began to sink into the horizon, creating a blazing sunset unlike any Trunks had seen from home.

Suddenly, he was left fighting air, simultaneously punching the empty space even as he pulled his body to a stop. Wrenched so jarringly out of his near meditative frame of mind, Trunks had to force himself to think and search for the threat that had to be coming. It found him long before he caught sight of either twin, and he was roughly pulled into a position that limited his sight and reach. Before he could gain control, he was thrown aside too quickly and too hard for him to catch himself. 

He landed not on the ground, not even in the side of a cliff. Strong, wiry arms caught him, and dazed, he looked up just in time to see cold, icy blue eyes boring into his. Laughing, Eighteen forced him into the air once more, calling, "Seventeen, catch."

And so this wild game  continued, with one twin open, despite the pilots' gallant endeavors. With each passing toss, Trunks became more and more disoriented, and gained even less of a chance of freeing himself. It seemed useless to try anything, but his conscience urged him on, taking the voice of his father.

_And you call yourself a Saiyajin._

_ "Stop this!" _he demanded, half to himself, and half to the twins that so tormented him. No matter what he did, it seemed, he was never good enough. _Always one step behind. _It was maddening. Out of frustration, anger and sadness he'd barely known existed, he managed to collect the energy he needed, finding an untapped source form which he created a massive way just strong enough to counter the force he'd acquired, and successfully stunning the twin he'd nearly collided with.

Seventeen smiled at his sister, seemingly amused that it'd taken Trunks that long to figure out so simple a maneuver. "Heh." He noted, as if there was something to be gathered from that.

Shrugging nonchalantly, Eighteen rolled her eyes. "What more can we expect?"

What more can I do? 

They were as one, and for an instant, it seemed they were more than two monsters, something else altogether, and not the childish brats who'd long ago decided _he_ was their new toy. It was like seeing an angel from the stories people had told him while he was here, the beings were as terrifying and awe inspiring as they were beautiful and radiant, filling everything around them with a sense of fear and dread. They had no wings, but the halo that surrounded them was more than a simple golden band, it was an aura that filled the sky and made even the bright day dark in comparison. It was terrible and beautiful as a star gone nova, and somehow more than that.

And this time, Trunks _knew_ it was no fluke…this was no cheap imitation of the attack that had left his mentor dead. It was the real thing, and in no way did Trunks want to see first hand what it would do. They'd given up their games, and now, as beads of perspiration formed on each brow, the androids began to form the basis of the power Trunks had constructed to destroy the universe.

He knew what that meant. What it would _do_ to him and everyone in the vicinity, save the twins themselves. They'd die quickly, if they were merciful, but never had he known them to be that. More likely they'd die after an eternity's agony, with nothing left but the dim memory of pain as their spirits fled this plane of existence.

And he knew…

He _knew_ there was no way to stop such a wave once it was set in motion.

Nowhere to run.

Not in the middle of nothing.

Nowhere to hide.

Not here.

_Trapped…oh Kami, they _planned _this!_

And Trunks knew despair as he had not known her sense since he dreamed of the universe's end, and felt the eyes, the heart and soul of _every _universe, turn on him.

Nothing. He could do absolutely nothing…

And then, a body intercepted the two, shattering the intense focus required for such an impressive force, and knocking the twins out of place. For a moment, Trunks stared, unable to believe his eyes. From the midst of shadow, one suit had emerged, a small, simple thing with nothing special about it. But it was enough, and the damage that could have bee done was set aside.

His mind numb, Trunks watched in mute horror as the androids regained their balance, and with one hand, Seventeen restrained the armored warrior. There was complete and utter silence as the next few moments played out, and the eyes of the half Saiyajin went dark, showing not what was to be, or had already come to pass.

They shone dully, as only the present may, a dim mirror in which all things are trapped forever more.

With one blow, the machine broke in two, and with the sight his forefathers had possessed, the young man Saw everything. The resulting fires reflected in his eyes, and on that obsidian surface death knew no name.

And then, they fell.

These two, these androids who'd triumphed in the ruin of all, they collapsed like dolls.

All at the command of one small devise, seven and a half by eighteen centimeters, with a width of one and a half, in which the fate of the world lay. Bulma had activated the remote control.

And their eyes, electric, ice blue eyes, spoke no more of amusement, promised pain, or suffering. They were dead to the world as they fell, hitting the ground heavily, helpless to stop their descent.

For a moment, there was complete silence, broken only by the static of the transmitters as someone began to cry.

But for Trunks, there was only silence.

*****

tbc…

The epilogue should be done by Friday, January 31st. 

Thanks go out to Raen, Janice, Tamy, and Kolinshar Jackie-chan Benito. 

Raen, thank you for pointing out typos! *Hugs* Meghan says 'thank you' by the way. All three of us have read these bits entirely too much for comfort…so we skipped the final re-reading. *Sheepish* and yep, you're consistent, intelligent _and _entertaining to boot! 

Janice: *grins* well, no, that chapter Taise and Meghan wrote out, I just had to suffer through their handwriting. *winks* this one, however, I was stuck copying most of. It's frustrating and time consuming…Why thank you. I take much time and consideration with the fight scenes, so I'll take the "long and detailed" bit as a compliment. *Cheesy grin*

Tamy: working on the 'more' part as fast as I can. Thank you for the input! 

KB Jackie-chan: thank you for the compliment. *Shrugs* not so much a crossover with GW so much as 'borrowing' a name or two. *Winks* the silly world is probably heavily influenced by GW, but I don't think it qualifies as a crossover...or not. *Shrugs again* I dunno. 

Questions, comments, concerns, rants and other such reviews are always appreciated.


	14. Epilogue

**Disclaimer: **DBZ isn't mine. The plot of this story is. All original charas are mine, and even though the world was based off some elements of GW, that's mine too. After all, isn't the world in Dragon Lance (Krynn, in case you don't know) more or less based off of J.R.R. Tolkein's Middle Earth?

**Warnings: **High angst content. Possibly some cursing. Not much violence, I don't think. The last part to this story, but be warned: there are some short stories in the making to go along with it. 

Losing Innocence

Book II

**Epilogue**

The sky overhead was gray, as if the planet itself mourned the loss of one of her people, and was less because of it. The blanket of clouds, blocking the sun's harsh light, was undisturbed for miles around, and those clouds could have given way to rain at any time, but it hadn't. Blowing gently, blowing ruthlessly, the wind changed its patterns without the slightest regard for common trends, and the few leaves remaining on the near bare trees rattled hollowly. He was surrounded by death, and all its morosely plentiful sounds.

He needed no reminder. The pain in his heart was enough, and his memory reached deep. Never would there be peace for him, not after all that had passed. Shaking his head and sighing deeply, Trunks stared up at the clouds, remembering. There'd been a time when he'd done just this, though the scenery was different, and his heart weighed not so much. Troubled, as all young are, he'd lain on the grassy lawn of a small island, and contemplated the mysteries of the universe. 

Now, he knew all too much, and his soul was no lighter for it.

Then, he'd not had the pleasure of knowing what it meant to administer death so cruelly, nor had he felt the pang of loss quite so suddenly, or in as great numbers. But as was then, his mind could not stray from the same subject, despite all his attempts. No, there would be no relief. No chance for forgiveness.

His sins were too great.

_All that bloodshed…_ And what had he accomplished? So many lay dead at his hands, and still more would be laid to waste by means originating in him.

Nothing.

That was the beauty, and that was the terror of it all.

He'd done absolutely_ nothing._

As if to echo his sentiments, the air grew chill, and the leaves that had blown aside were forced from their original trees. The ground beneath his feet trembled, and the cool earth seemed to sigh.

Despite everything. He'd tried…yet both armies were no closer to seeing eye to eye than before, and if he'd done _anything at all, _he'd kept them fighting. How strange it seemed, when he knew better than anyone how _wrong _these battles were. From personal experience, he knew neither side was right, nor was either side wholly wrong, and Trunks realized that both were terribly misguided into thinking the other was as evil as… well.

The androids.

He'd talked to soldiers and mechanics all, the beginners, and the veterans, and they'd seen something in him he could never guess. In him, of all people, they'd found hope, and because of it, he would lead yet more generations to destruction.

I tried so hard… 

Pointless. He'd given so much, trying to get them to _see, _to realize by their own will how mistaken they were. Trunks had wanted them to realize what the only course of action could be. But they were as blind as he'd been to his mother's admonitions, seeing only what they wanted, and not one bit what he needed them to. In many ways, this world was precisely the same as he'd come to it; it was a blackened hole of misfortune and death that took everything into its embrace and left it, cold and rotting.

_My fault._

Everything he did was for naught. Because of his actions, there would come yet more bloodshed, when he'd wanted the soldiers to become more than what they were. Had he been foolish and naïve enough to think they'd miraculously turn out to be the warriors he remembered from another time? Had he _truly_ believed these people, driven to despair by a pointless war, could _be _ the heroes he wanted, _needed, _them to be?

In his mind, an image of those heroes glimmered. Like the sunset, they were glorious and brilliant, and to see them was to hold a deep longing. Bright and powerful, as was that final ending for the day, they'd lasted but moments in the history of human kind, but their mark would forever be remembered, if only by him.

_All that I've done is kill hundreds, and create the means to _demolish_ yet more lives until those weapons of mass destruction are nothing but ash. _

And in twenty years, it would all be the same. Certainly the technology would change, and the legions may very well have different names or causes, but the war would go on. He knew this now, as he had when he'd come here, and he could only hope that his dream was nothing more than that, and not some freakish prophecy held to his life, his death, or his very existence.

What he'd done already was difficult on his heart, and still more would be unbearable.

None of the pilots, not one of them, knew how to repair a suit. Despite his ranting about the need for self-repair and self-efficiency, he could never fully motivate them to fix their own problems. No one was interested, save Alex, who wanted to do _everything _for himself, no matter how impossible it seemed. Trunks smiled sadly, remembering how arrogant the kid could be.

_Kid. _Trunks sighed.

That wasn't the word…not any more. They'd seen poverty, all the pilots, and all the horrors of war. Death. _Oh Kami, have they seen death…_ Destruction. Murder, pillage, rape and fear. They'd seen all these, and experienced many. No, they were children no longer.

And even _that _was not enough to get them to end it all, to stop this war before it claimed the lives of all the young, precious children untouched by this hardship. It was hardly enough for them to shed a tear, much less stop their 'cause' for it. No…with suffering comes the hardening of one's heart, and when that happens, there's nothing left but a shell. No cause was worth that, for in strength of heart and mind comes true courage, and from that well of power comes the ability to do _anything_. These adults, soldiers all, knew nothing of the ways of a warrior.

They had not the strength, nor the endurance.

It grieved him to know this.

Regardless of everything, they would _not_ give up their belief that they would win, no matter how feeble this conviction seemed under close inspection. He wouldn't be able to persuade them, though it wasn't for lack of trying. Like Gohan had done before him, to an altogether different boy, young and arrogant as these nine were not, Trunks tried to talk them out of their chosen courses, and just as he himself had done when he was in their position, the pilots ignored him completely. No one would keep them from the ways of war, it seemed, and in that Trunks found great sadness.

He'd thought he'd known the full extent of depression and the hardship that came with her, but Trunks had found there was _always_ more to learn, especially when concerning the heart.

_But…Gohan _died _to protect me. _There would always be a dreadful misery with that particular thought, but…there was also strong affection, and great respect. _He tried to show me all that came with the life of a warrior. _Perhaps his mentor had meant for him to take a different lesson from his downfall, but Gohan's demise had only pushed Trunks further. _I'd known either of us could die at any moment, but… I didn't understand any of it… not until then._ The memory was clear in his mind; even now, he could taste the rain as it fell on the two of them. One alive. One dead, and the power that had coursed through him… the power of the legendary Super Saiyajin lingered still.

_I didn't even _try_ to save Alex. _There was no 'but' about it. He could have done more; he could have left them all in the care of his mother, or at the very worst he could have left them all unconscious, as Gohan had left him. But he remembered well the pain he'd felt when that had happened. He'd been ridden with guilt because he'd not been given the opportunity to prove himself to his teacher, and he hadn't been given the chance to help him, so he sympathized with those young pilots. It seemed he didn't know when to allow them to help, or when to protect them. He knew neither the depths of his own abilities nor theirs, and perhaps he overestimated all of them.

_Weak._

The accusation was met with no resistance. He couldn't be anything but that, not if he let the lives of children overcome his desire to protect all that needed his help.

So Alex was dead, and Trunks alive, when it should have been the other way around.

I've achieved absolutely nothing… 

Yes, it was true that the two beings he'd worked his _entire_ life to destroy were now helpless, dead to the world and unable to regain any form of life they'd known. His mother made sure of that… Even if someone managed to fix the broken circuits, and replace the  missing chips, the 'savior' would only find a bomb, timed to go off as soon as the necessary connections, those all-important passageways for the androids to function as living things, as soon as they were made. And still, with all these little precautions in place, the twins were buried deep within steel coffins, hidden where they'd landed, their graves adorned with nothing to impart the secrets they kept.

But their demise was hardly his to claim. He'd done nothing more than hand his mother the plans, those scraps of paper he'd developed in the shadow universe, and then he'd left. There was nothing else to it, and those two abominations, his foes for so long, were not really gone.

They hadn't suffered. Not like their victims had…

And his world, the place he'd grown up in, fought for and _lived for… _was gone. There wasn't a trace of his planet left, nothing to suggest it had _ever_ existed. His mother had known, or at least guessed, this would happen when the problems that had created their timeline were 'fixed' in the past, yet everything as it was had remained the same. Their people were living on borrowed time. Even the androids.

It was just a matter of waiting before that gift ran out.

The people Gohan, his father, and so many others had died for, they might as well have never existed.

His life, and all the work he'd done, was meaningless.

_All for naught._

Sighing to himself, Trunks stared at the simple, gray headstone that marked Alex's grave, the small thing without even a name to identify the boy. There was only a date, a few flowers, and a pile of dirt. For safety measures, the scientists had said, to ensure the body remained untouched. _How many others have they buried, in graves like this one?_ Trunks wondered, and tried half heartedly not to cry.

He'd made his good-byes, and done what he could to ease his and the others' sorrow. He had nothing to offer but that, however, and what he'd picked up on his journey here. 

From the sky, the field in which he'd found it glimmered white like a blanket of snow, radiant and lovely, and without the chill. Drawn by its beauty, Trunks had stalled his travel and landed amidst the soft, fragrant flowers that grew in abundance here. They were nothing more than weeds, really, far too hardy and strong to be considered beautiful flowers, being nothing like the delicate wisps of things that so often adorned graves, and for this, he was reminded of a boy, a man, with the ability to be strong where Trunks hadn't been, this amazing _adult_ who was resplendent in his own right.

For Trunks, no other token would do.

As he looked around the quiet meadow, he saw not the graceful willow standing guard over his departed friend, nor the river that wound itself around them. In his memory, he watched the pilots, and the silent right that had marked the burial. _Who will be the last?_ He wondered. _Which of these brilliant, idiotic fools will be the last to stand?_

The wind stirred, rustling the leaves like a death rattle.

_The Mads, who made them these soldiers?_ Closing his eyes to the world and its pain, he tried to blank his mind, to erase the images burned into his memory. For a moment, he saw nothing, and then, he saw it…

And his heart broke.

"Trunks," a voice called, shaking him from his thoughts as he'd begun to put words to the nameless vision in his head. "We need to go, sweetheart." His mother. Despite himself, Trunks smiled. _Once, I thought I'd never see her again…_

Once.

Now, they were all that was left of a world that had once been great.

Lifting his eyes to the gray sky above, he prayed this world would last long enough to see the end of this Kamiforsaken war. "I'll miss you," he murmured, uncertain if he spoke to the pilots still alive, or the one who'd died to save them all.

_Well. _At least one person saw the significance in duty, and in the heart.

One.

*****

_Actum este._

That's the last of Losing Innocence, though two specials are on their way. Slowly, I might add. I have no proposed dates for those, just before March 9th. Short stories, both, I might add, and detailing what caused Vegeta to become the way he was in the shadow world, as Trunks calls it. That fic is dedicated to UnromanticPoetess, for reminding me that I had absolutely no reason for Vegeta to be the way he was, other than some vague circumstances I never went into. The other will be in efforts to explain the mysterious enigma that is Red. If you have any plot-builders/little bits and pieces you'd like to see in either of those, feel free to tell me. I'm always open to suggestions. 

That, and one comment can send me into a writing spree. *Winks*

I'd like to take the time now to thank my editor and friend, Meghan, without whom this would _not _be possible. She's done more editing than I'd care to remember, pushing and prodding me to be the best I can be with my (current) abilities. She's helped me with grammar, pointing out all sorts of repeated words and misplaced modifiers, and she's given me plot suggestions that turned the tables for this fic. I'd also like to thank Taise, for being a friend as well as a brother, and for cheering me up when I was feeling awful and inspiring me to write a good deal of the "advice to the soldiers" bits. He's been a support column _I_ couldn't do without. This story would not have been possible without him, either. And of course, I must thank Felix for allowing me to 'borrow' the first part of her story, and branch off it into my own. *Smiles* very nice of her. Naturally, one must also remember the reviewers, the kind people who inspire authors to turn out more than they'd believe possible, and inspire us (me, at least) to getting things fully completed. Special thanks to you all who took the time to give me feedback…I'd like to think I've grown as an author during this journey, and a lot of that would be because of the little remarks that make us all stronger.

Thanks also go out to KB Jackie-chan and Raen for commenting on the last chapter. *Smiles* 

KB-- entertainment has more of an effect on life than we'd all like to admit, ne? *Grins* and thank you for the compliments!

Raen-- need I say it again? You're intelligent, thoughtful, thought provoking, entertaining, and altogether wonderful. Especially at reviews. *Grins* thanks for a very comprehensive, _detailed_ review! *Laughs* and I thought Seventeen's weatherman report was funny. *Silly smile* I dunno what that makes either of us, but you're not alone! (Taise and Meghan agree with us…) once again, thanks.

Good bye for now, everyone, but don't forget: comments, critiques, questions, rants and general reviews are _always _welcome. Almost especially after the whole thing's said and done with.


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